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 | Apr 1, 2026 | Uncategorized
Teachers in Christ’s church wield the sacred Scriptures with immense responsibility. As James soberly warns, “Not many of you should become teachers, my brothers, for you know that we who teach will be judged with greater strictness” (James 3:1, NET). A couple Scripture examples we will look at are Ezekiel 37, Acts 2, and John 7:38, that could be used more as launchpads for personal application than anchors in their biblical storyline. These verses, ripped from context, morphed into endorsements for declaring miracles, forcing revival, and tapping prosperity. The presentation may be compelling, yes, but faithful? That is the question we must press with great care: Does this approach honor the original author’s intent to his immediate audience, and God’s timeless purpose for His covenant people?
Ezekiel 37: Dry Bones as Proof Text for Personal Decrees?
“God told Ezekiel to prophesy to dry bones, so now you speak life to your business, your marriage, your kids!” Ezekiel 37 flashes on the screen, fueling urgent calls to command outcomes through bold declarations. It stirs hope in the hearers, no doubt. But rewind to Judah’s desperate world in 593 BC. Ezekiel, himself exiled in Babylon, addresses a defeated nation doubting any return from divine judgment for their idolatry (Ezek. 36:31-32). The valley of bones symbolizes national death after Jerusalem’s catastrophic fall, not individual pep talks for modern challenges. God alone breathes life into the scene: “I will put breath in you” (v. 5, NET), promising restoration to the covenant land as a witness to the nations (vv. 21-28).
The prophet obeyed a direct vision from the Lord (v. 1), not some freelance exercise of faith. For Judah, this foretold both physical return from exile and spiritual renewal under a new covenant with heart-surgery from God (Ezek. 36:26), all as His sovereign act, culminating ultimately in Christ who calls the dead to life (John 5:25-29).
Yanking Ezekiel for “speak life” formulas skips entirely over God’s righteous judgment on idolatry and His gracious initiative in restoration. What God meant for His people: Trust Yahweh’s faithfulness to restore Israel, pointing forward to the Messiah’s greater valley-conquest over sin and death.
Acts 2: Pentecost as Revival Blueprint?
“Acts 2 shows us, pray, tarry, tongues, fire! Do this to break revival’s dam in our region.” It sounds powerful and practical. But step into 30 AD Jerusalem for the full picture. Post-resurrection, 120 disciples awaited the promised Spirit (Acts 1:4-5), fulfilling Joel 2 for last-days witness to the ends of the earth (Acts 2:17-21). The event arrives “suddenly” from heaven (v. 2, NET), with no human technique dictating the timing. Peter’s sermon indicts Israel’s sin, exalts the crucified Jesus as Lord and Christ (vv. 22-36), yielding 3,000 baptisms into a repentant, sharing community (vv. 41-47).
The broader context matters deeply: Israel’s feast of harvest (Lev. 23:15-21), reversing Babel’s division (Gen. 11) for a global gospel advance. This was not a repeatable strategy for regional breakthroughs, but the birth of the Church, now God’s chosen people to bear His image to the world.
Treating Acts 2 as a checklist ignores Pentecost’s once-for-all inauguration of the kingdom age. God’s point to His people: The Spirit empowers witnesses of the crucified Messiah amid opposition, building one holy nation called out from the world (1 Pet. 2:9).
John 7:38: Living Waters as Prosperity Rivers?
“Out of your belly flow rivers!” , tying it to Eden’s gold-laden stream (Gen. 2:11). Activate your spirit-man for healing, joy, “financial prosperity,” we’re urged. It invigorates the listeners. But John 7 unfolds at the Feast of Tabernacles (v. 2), where Jesus cries out amid the water-pouring rite symbolizing future blessing (Zech. 14:8). To the thirsty believer, He says, “Come to me” (v. 37). Those rivers? The Spirit poured out on parched Israel post-exile, as living water quenching ultimate thirst (Isa. 44:3; Jer. 2:13), fulfilled at the crucifixion when blood and water flow from His side (John 19:34).
John’s Gospel frames Jesus as the new temple (John 2:21), the new exodus rock (John 4:14). No Eden gold here; eternal life fuels mission (John 20:21).
Morphing “rivers” into wealth or positive outcomes skips Jesus’ immediate audience: skeptical Jews needing the true Messiah amid temple ritual. God’s design for His people: Spirit from the smitten Rock (1 Cor. 10:4) quenches soul-thirst, equips disciples for witness.
Patristic Exegesis: Context as Safeguard Against Distortion
The church fathers modeled contextual exegesis with unwavering commitment, ensuring Scripture’s unity across its grand narrative of creation, fall, redemption, and consummation. Augustine, in his City of God, unpacked Ezekiel 37 not as a technique for personal breakthroughs, but as eschatological hope for bodily resurrection, a promise shadowed in Israel’s restoration yet fully realized in Christ’s empty tomb and our future glorification. He warned against those who “twist” texts to fit private interpretations, urging readers to trace prophecies through salvation history (City of God, Book XX).
Chrysostom’s Homilies on Acts delve deeply into Pentecost’s historical moment: Peter’s sermon as bold apologetics amid ridicule, the Spirit’s outpouring fulfilling Old Testament feasts while launching the church against temple-centric Judaism. He stressed the sermon’s Christocentric thrust—crucifixion, resurrection, lordship—not a formulaic repeat, but a divine pattern for preaching repentance in every generation. For Chrysostom, ignoring this context reduced the Spirit to a tool for spectacle rather than the sanctifier of God’s new covenant people.
Origen, the Alexandrian scholar, laid foundational principles in On First Principles: Begin with the literal-historical sense—Ezekiel’s vision amid Babylonian exile, Pentecost at Passover’s close—before ascending to spiritual typology. He critiqued Gnostics who detached verses for esoteric secrets, insisting the Spirit illuminates Scripture’s cohesive storyline, with Christ as its scarlet thread. John 7’s rivers, for Origen, evoked baptismal grace filling the church as new Israel, not individual material gain (Commentary on John).
Irenaeus championed recapitulation: All Scripture converges in Christ’s person and work. Ezekiel’s dry bones recast Adam’s fall, revived by the second Adam; Acts 2 fulfills the prophets for Jew and Gentile alike; John’s waters reverse Eden’s curse through the Word-made-flesh (Against Heresies). These fathers echoed Paul’s charge in 2 Timothy 2:15: “rightly handling the word of truth,” handling it as a unified tapestry where exile foreshadows cross, Pentecost ignites mission, and living water satisfies eternal thirst.
When preachers pluck verses free from this arc, of covenant judgment and mercy, Israel’s story fulfilled in Jesus, we forfeit God’s intended medicine for His people: humility before sovereignty, mission amid weakness, hope beyond this age.
Demand Faithful Interpretation
Paul urged earnestly: “Test everything; hold fast what is good” (1 Thess. 5:21, NET). The Bereans did this in Acts, and we must do the same today.
Ask your teacher these vital questions:
- Do they frame texts in redemptive history, or pluck them for punchlines?
- Do they honor the author’s audience and intent, or overlay modern wants?
- Do they trace promises to Christ as fulfillment, or freeze them in isolation?
- Do they echo fathers’ contextual depth, or skim the surface for effect?
Nicene exegetes preserved storyline unity: Old foreshadows New. Distortion fractures it irreparably.
Jesus rebuked the Sadducees: “You err, not knowing the Scriptures nor the power of God” (Matt. 22:29, NET). Fruits of decontextualized texts? Self-focused faith, fleeting excitement. Or humble obedience, Christ-centered hope enduring forever?
Church, probe graciously, steadfastly. Rally to expositors stewarding context with care. The true gospel thrives in the story’s full arc, grace weaving exile to glory, Christ our exile’s end.
by Joel V Webb | Mar 31, 2026 | Uncategorized
What sort of benefits does the cross of Christ provide us?
It certainly is an appropriate question to ask as we are just days away from Good Friday and Easter. Jesus died on the cross, something happened, and now because of it things are different for us. Throughout Church history there certainly have been a variety of understandings of that what, and for the most part they have been fairly consistent with each other. But something happened in the 20th century that provided a very different spin on what the work of Christ means for us in this life, and the next.
Any Christian who affirms the Nicene Creeds affirms that the work of Christ is for the forgiveness of our sins. Because Christ took our sins, we receive the blessing and benefit of having them no longer on us. Now we have to ask the question: what does that look like and mean? Classically, that question has been answered by the Church as proclaiming that we now receive new life, free from the curse through and because of Christ that enables us to become like Him in a way that was not possible before His once for all sacrifice.
The early Christian witness is remarkably unified: the cross is the place where God’s love, justice, and mercy converge. Paul writes, “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Cor 5:21). In Colossians he adds that God has “forgiven us all our trespasses, having canceled the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. This he set aside, nailing it to the cross” (Col 2:13–14, ESV). The cross, then, is the hinge of both forgiveness and new creation. We are no longer under the curse of the law, yet we are not left to drift into easy moral license; instead, we are placed into a new story—death to sin, life in Christ, formation into holiness.
The Church Fathers amplify this picture. St. Irenaeus speaks of Christ as the “last Adam” who recapitulates human life, summing up and redeeming every stage of our fallen history so that “what Adam rendered a slave he might make lord” (cf. Adv. Haer. 5.1.1). The cross is the definitive act through which Christ undoes the pride of the first Adam and restores human nature to communion with God. St. Augustine, writing in the 4th–5th century, similarly stresses that the cross is the place where God’s love and righteousness coincide: the innocent Son bears the punishment we deserve, and in that very act love is shown to be greater than our sin. As he puts it in one of his sermons, the cross bends the head to kiss us, extends the arms to embrace us, and opens the heart to receive us.
St. John Chrysostom, preaching in the 4th century, declares that the cross is not only the salvation of the Church but also “the boast of those who hope in it” (cf. his homilies on the Cross). For him, the cross frees us from enmity with God, breaks the authority of the devil, and delivers us from death and destruction. Through the cross, he says, we learn piety, discover the true nature of God, and are taught to die for others as Christ first died for us. In this ancient vision, the cross is never a mere event in the past; it is the living center of a transformed life and a reconciled world.
But in the 20th century, a new story attached itself to the cross. The so‑called “prosperity gospel” teaches that Christ’s death purchased not only spiritual salvation, but also material abundance, physical health, and social success. In this way of thinking, the atonement covers not just sin and guilt, but also poverty, sickness, and misfortune. Advocates of this view claim that if you have faith, give generously, and “confess” God’s promises, you will be rewarded with wealth, health, and a life free from suffering. The cross thus becomes less about reconciliation and more about a transaction in which God is obligated to grant earthly prosperity to those who “activate” their faith.
This message is a radical departure from Scripture. The apostles promise suffering, not immunity from it (Rom 8:17; 1 Pet 4:12–13). Jesus says, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me” (Matt 16:24), not “follow me and I will guarantee you comfort.” Paul writes that “if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co‑heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory” (Rom 8:17). The New Testament repeatedly pits the way of the cross against the way of the world, warning that those who love money stand in danger of idolatry (1 Tim 6:10; cf. Matt 6:19–21).
The prosperity gospel also distorts the biblical doctrine of the Abrahamic covenant. It claims that believers are Abraham’s heirs and therefore entitled to material prosperity as part of God’s covenant blessing. But when Paul speaks of “the blessings of Abraham” falling on the Gentiles in Christ, he immediately explains that this blessing is the promise of the Spirit through faith (Gal 3:14). The covenant is fulfilled spiritually in reconciliation, adoption, and the indwelling of the Spirit, not primarily in bank accounts or real estate.
The Bible sounds a clear warning against the idolatry of wealth and the illusion that faith is a lever for acquiring it. Jesus warns that “no one can serve two masters… You cannot serve God and money” (Matt 6:24). The apostle John exhorts, “Little children, keep yourselves from idols” (1 John 5:21) a phrase that early Christian moralists read as a summons to flee the idolatry of greed. The pastoral letters likewise warn that the love of money is a root of many evils and can lead believers to wander from the faith (1 Tim 6:9–10). The Fathers echo these warnings. St. Augustine repeatedly warns against the “lust of the eyes” and the danger of treating wealth as a sign of God’s favor, pointing instead to the cross as the true mark of Christian identity. Likewise, St. John Chrysostom rails against the obsession with riches among his flock, urging them to see Christ crucified rather than Caesar adorned. For the Fathers, the cross is the final answer to the world’s false promises: it is the place where God exposes the emptiness of power, status, and wealth and offers something far greater: union with himself.
The prosperity gospel is not simply a different emphasis on the Christian life; it is a different gospel altogether. By teaching that the atonement guarantees material prosperity, it turns the relationship between God and human beings into a quid pro quo transaction: you give, you speak, you believe, and God must pay. This view undermines the very nature of grace, which is the unmerited favor of God. If prosperity is automatically attached to faith, then grace becomes a tool, and God becomes a kind of cosmic vending machine, programmed to dispense rewards when the right buttons are pressed. Moreover, the prosperity gospel misrepresents the nature of faith itself. The New Testament portrays faith as trust in the person and promises of Christ, not as a “spiritual force” that manipulates God. Yet many prosperity teachers speak of faith as a self‑generated power that can be harnessed to make God give. This is far removed from the Pauline picture of faith as the instrument by which we receive forgiveness, righteousness, and the Spirit (Gal 3:14; Eph 2:8–9). It is also alien to the apostolic view of prayer, which is directed to “Your will be done,” not to getting God to serve our desires (Matt 6:10; James 4:3).
The true gospel offers something more profound and lasting than the prosperity gospel’s glittering promises. The cross secures for us not an escape from suffering, but a share in the life of the risen Christ. St. Paul can write, “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Gal 2:20). This is the heart of the gospel‑centered alternative: the Christian life is not about maximizing personal gain, but about being conformed to the image of Christ, even through the cross.
The cross brings us:
- Reconciliation with God: “We were reconciled to God by the death of his Son” (Rom 5:10) and “the Cross is the reconciliation of enemies to God” (Chrysostom).
- Deliverance from sin and death: the cross annuls the power of sin, breaks the hold of death, and unmasks the petty calculations of the devil.
- Sanctification and holiness: the Spirit is poured out on those who are joined to Christ, enabling us to walk in newness of life (Rom 6:4; Tit 3:5–7).
- Eternal inheritance: the cross is the pledge of resurrection and the promise of a new heavens and a new earth, where sorrow and pain will be no more (Rev 21:4).
For the Fathers, the cross is the icon of both God’s love and our vocation: it is the place where God stoops low enough to save, and where we are called to stoop low enough to serve. It is the standard raised against the world’s values, the pattern of true discipleship, and the guarantee of glory to come.
As we approach Good Friday and Easter, the prosperity gospel should not be our tutor. The cross did not come to make us rich by the world’s standards, but to make us heirs of God and joint‑heirs with Christ (Rom 8:17). It did not come to free us from suffering, but to give our suffering meaning by joining it to the body of the Crucified One. The benefits of the cross are spiritual, eternal, and relational: forgiveness, adoption, the Spirit, communion with God, and the hope of resurrection.
The true prosperity of the believer is to be like Jesus, to love as he loved, to serve as he served, to forgive as he forgave, and to hope as he hoped, even when the world calls it foolishness. As we walk toward the cross and the empty tomb, may we receive the cross’s real gifts, reject the false promises of the prosperity gospel, and live in the light of the one who, though rich, became poor for our sake, that we through his poverty might become truly rich in every way that matters (2 Cor 8:9).
by Joel V Webb | Mar 27, 2026 | Uncategorized
Easter is just around the corner, and for the first time I’ll have the honor of administering the sacrament of baptism on Easter Sunday, one of the traditional days the Church has welcomed those into the Church. The discussion and debates in the church over baptism are a fascinating one. For every Christian, baptism is the universally recognized entrance into life in the people of God, but especially since the Reformation, certain elements of the Church, while acknowledging its importance, have lessened its impact, and flattened the reality and beauty of baptism to a simple, “tell people that you love Jesus.” But what Scripture, and the history and tradition of the Church demonstrates, it is so much more than that.
Before addressing anything more specifically, I want to quickly touch the base that Baptism is a Sacrament. In the Free Methodist Church, the denomination I am in, we recognize the two sacraments of Christ, the Eucharist and Baptism. They are the means of grace that Christ has given His Church. Eucharist (Communion or the Lord’s Supper), as spoken of by John Wesley is the ongoing and continual means by which God provides grace to the Christian in their life (see his sermon The Duty of Constant Communion). And, it is Baptism, as spoken of above, that serves as the rite of entrance into the people of God. In my church, the baptismal font is located at the back of the sanctuary, in direct line with the chancel of the altar, representing the truth that you must first pass through baptism to come into the life of the Church.
The word sacrament in this discussion is important because it focuses on the work of God that takes place as we engage in these means that Christ has given us. Yes, we are commanded to keep them in obedience to His word (Christ’s command to baptize in the Great Commission, and His command to keep the table in continual remembrance of Him). It is the witness of Scripture and the early undivided Church that these acts are much more than us doing, they are the avenue and channel of God to work in and through His people. Physicality matters because we are in a physical world, and God stepped in through the incarnation. So thus, God does not stop working through the physical, rather He has given to His people physical signs through which His graces flow. This is why I distinctively use the language of sacrament, rather than something else such as ordinance.
Now back to the main discussion.
Of all the verses, one of the most controversial is 1 Peter 3:21, “this water symbolizes baptism that now saves you also—not the removal of dirt from the body but the pledge of a clear conscience toward God. It saves you by the resurrection of Jesus Christ.” In this verse, Peter does not mince words—he articulates something that should cause modern evangelicals, especially those of a “believer’s baptism only” persuasion, to slow down and read again. “Baptism now saves you.” It’s hard to argue that Peter could have spoken more plainly. But immediately, he anticipates our misunderstanding: it is not “the removal of dirt from the body.” It’s not a magical washing, or a mere ritual dealing with externals. Peter wants us to understand that baptism’s efficacy is grounded not in ritual precision but in the resurrection of Jesus Christ. In other words, baptism saves, not because of water alone, but because in baptism we are united to the saving work of Christ—the same Christ who plunged into death and rose up into new life.
The apostle’s words echo other deep currents running through the New Testament. Paul declares in Romans 6 that “all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death.” Baptism links the believer personally and mysteriously with the passion and resurrection of the Lord. It is not simply a symbol we perform to show our commitment; it is a real participation in Christ’s own redemptive act. Through it, we are joined to his dying and rising—our old self is buried, and a new self, reborn by grace, comes into being. In this way, baptism is not an optional external mark, but an entrance into life in Christ, a sacramental sharing in his work of salvation.
Here is where much of our modern understanding falters. We have come to think of baptism primarily as an expressive act—something we do to communicate something about ourselves: our faith, our repentance, our decision. But biblically and historically, baptism is primarily receptive. It is something God does in and for us. Yes, we approach in faith; yes, it is a sign of commitment to follow Christ—but at its core, baptism is an encounter with the divine initiative, not a declaration of human resolve.
This shift in emphasis is not a matter of semantics. It shapes our entire theology of grace and discipleship. If baptism is my declaration, then my faith stands primarily on the strength of my sincerity and memory of having “made a decision.” But if baptism is Christ’s act toward me, then my faith stands on divine promise and covenant faithfulness. The former centers on my experience, the latter on God’s grace. And this distinction lies close to the heart of the Reformation concern: that our salvation rests not on our performance but on the steadfast mercy of God.
John Wesley, of course, understood this sacramental tension well. In his sermon The New Birth, he draws together faith and baptism in a deeply practical way. He insists that baptism is both a sign and a means of grace—a vehicle through which God works regeneration. But he also recognizes that the waters alone do not automatically confer salvation; they must be received by faith. Wesley’s nuanced view allowed for both divine action and human response, and it serves the Church today as a helpful corrective to both extremes: the notion that baptism functions mechanically without faith, and the opposing view that it is merely a symbol without power.
Throughout Scripture, water is not a neutral or comforting image—it is chaotic, cleansing, and creative all at once. From the primordial deep in Genesis, to the floodwaters in Noah’s day, to the Red Sea and the Jordan River, God repeatedly uses water as the boundary between old life and new creation. It both destroys and delivers. Peter, drawing on the Noah narrative in the preceding verses of 1 Peter 3, connects baptism directly to this cosmic pattern: just as Noah passed through the waters of judgment into a new world, so too we are borne through the waters of baptism into the new creation of Christ.
The early Church Fathers grasped this profoundly. Tertullian, writing in the second century, called baptism the “seal of faith,” by which the Spirit marks and protects the believer. Cyril of Jerusalem described baptism as a “participation in the death and resurrection of Christ,” an event so transformative that he instructed catechumens to remove their garments before baptism as a sign of laying aside the old self, and then clothe themselves anew as a symbol of their resurrection life. These ancient witnesses saw baptism not as an addendum to salvation but as its visible threshold—the place where the promises of God and the faith of the believer meet in a sacrament of grace.
When I think about standing by the baptismal font this Easter, I can’t help but reflect on how baptism folds each of us into the larger story of redemption. It is not merely our story, it is Christ’s story, into which we are grafted. That’s why the baptismal liturgy traditionally includes the Apostles’ Creed, confessing the faith “once delivered to the saints.” In being baptized, a person doesn’t just say, “I believe in Jesus.” They are, more profoundly, saying, “I believe in the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; I believe in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and I take my place among His people.”
The Church, in her wisdom, locates baptism at this communal crossroads. It’s never a private ceremony, because baptism ushers us into the Body of Christ. We are baptized into one Body, as Paul says in 1 Corinthians 12:13. The Church becomes the womb from which new Christians are born and the family into which they are adopted. That’s why the placement of the font at the entrance, aligned with the altar is so fitting. The believer enters through those waters to approach the table of grace, joining in the full life of the Church.
This brings us, inevitably, to the question of who should be baptized. For many evangelicals, the assumption is that baptism belongs strictly to those old enough to make a personal declaration of faith. And yet, the witness of the early Church and of Scripture itself offers a broader perspective. When Peter finishes preaching on Pentecost, his message concludes with a promise: “The promise is for you and for your children and for all who are far off” (Acts 2:39). Households are baptized, not just individuals. The covenantal logic that once applied to circumcision now unfolds in baptism. It is the sign of belonging to the covenant community—a sign that anticipates faith as much as it springs from it.
This doesn’t mean that faith is unimportant; rather, it means baptism operates within the economy of grace. For infants, it is a sign planted in hope, to be nurtured and fulfilled by future faith. For adults, it is the sacramental seal of faith received. In both cases, what matters is not the sequence of events but the grace of God uniting them.
John Wesley himself baptized infants with full conviction, but always with pastoral care, urging parents and the Church to raise those baptized children in the nurture of the faith. In that sense, baptism begins a process, not ends one. It marks the beginning of the journey of sanctifying grace, that ongoing “going on to perfection” that Wesley so cherished.
Peter’s grounding phrase, “by the resurrection of Jesus Christ,” cannot be overemphasized. Baptism saves because Christ’s resurrection gives it power. Every baptism is, in fact, a mini-Easter. The movement down into the waters mirrors the death and burial of Jesus; the rising up out of them signifies participation in his resurrection. This is why the early Church baptized converts at sunrise, and often on Easter—those being baptized would literally face the East, toward the rising sun, confessing that they were turning away from the darkness of sin and turning toward the Light of Christ.
Theologically, this resurrection motif tells us that baptism is not a static act but a dynamic participation in life eternal. We are not simply cleansed of sin, we are set free for righteousness. The grace received in baptism calls and empowers us to live differently. As Paul reminds us, “just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life” (Romans 6:4). Baptism, then, is both forgiveness and new vocation. It is an identity-forming event.
Every time a Christian witnesses a baptism or dips their fingers into the font and makes the sign of the cross, it is a renewal of that truth: “I have died with Christ; I have been raised with Him.” Baptism, while once-for-all, continues to shape the believer’s spiritual imagination. Martin Luther, when plagued by temptation or despair, would often cry out, “I am baptized!”—not “I was baptized,” but “I am.” The reality of that moment endured for him as a present-tense grace.
So when the Free Methodist Church, or any church, remembers the baptized, it is a way of re-rooting our faith not in our wavering emotions but in God’s covenantal promise. Whether we were baptized as infants or as adults, in a river or a font, the same divine life is at work. God’s act remains true even when ours falter. Baptism allows us to locate our lives within that steadiness, to live out of an identity that has already been defined by God’s promise.
What, then, does it mean to “live baptismally”? It means living daily out of the truth that we have been united to Christ. It means resisting sin not from guilt or fear but from identity: “that is not who I am anymore.” It means recognizing the Church not as a voluntary association of like-minded individuals but as the family into which we were birthed through water and Spirit. It means approaching the table each week as those who have entered through the font—as resurrection people who have been called out of darkness into marvelous light.
To live baptismally is also to live missionally. The Great Commission does not end with “make disciples”; it continues, “baptizing them… and teaching them.” Baptism and discipleship are inseparable. Every act of evangelism, every act of mercy, every proclamation of the gospel flows from our baptismal identity—those who have been joined to Christ and sent to embody His Kingdom in the world.
As the early Church would declare at the baptismal font: “You are buried with Christ; you are raised with Christ; you are sealed by the Spirit; you belong to God.” This is not mere poetic flourish—it is the substance of Christian life.
So when Peter writes, “baptism now saves you,” he is not contradicting the gospel of grace, he is articulating it sacramentally. Baptism does not replace faith; it embodies it. It does not operate apart from the resurrection; it manifests it. It does not substitute obedience; it initiates it. The water does not save by itself, but by the divine power that has chosen to work through it.
This Easter, as you prepare to stand beside the font and welcome new believers into the family of faith, you participate in an unbroken story stretching back to the Jordan River, to Pentecost, to the empty tomb. The water that splashes from the font bears witness to the same grace that parted seas and burst forth from graves. It is the water through which the Spirit hovers once again, bringing new creation from chaos. And every drop proclaims the gospel in miniature: Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.
by Joel V Webb | Mar 23, 2026 | Uncategorized
The Danger of Needing to Be Certain
In my mind one of the greatest problems we can face in modern American evangelicalism is a sort of pathological need for certainty. We seek to have everything we can sorted out, with a bulletproof argument that is airtight and nothing can touch it. Yet, the reality of the human experience is fraught with times of doubt, questioning, and wondering. And when we have this baseline of having to have sure certainty, when those times of doubts or questions come, we fall apart.
Thankfully, this is not the picture of faith that Scripture gives to us. Yes, we can know for certain that God is real and His Word is true. But that does not mean we shouldn’t have times where we wonder, question, or struggle with our faith. In fact, it is when we do this that our faith becomes more grounded, stronger, and we look like Christ even more.
The Forgotten Day: Holy Saturday
This is what brings us to Holy Saturday—an often forgotten and overlooked day when it comes to Holy Week. We have the triumphal entry on Palm Sunday, the institution of Holy Communion and the washing of the disciples’ feet on Maundy Thursday, and the Passion narrative of Good Friday where Christ dies for the sins of the world. What we often forget, in between Christ’s death and His glorious resurrection on that Easter Sunday, is the period of time on Saturday where all was not well. Yet, if we are honest, most of us find ourselves in times and seasons in our lives that feel more like Holy Saturday than they do like Easter Sunday.
I would argue, in fact, that part of what makes the impact of Easter so powerful is the reality of the day before. The disciples had just seen their Rabbi, the one whom they confessed was not just the Messiah but God Himself, be brutally tortured and crucified. They witnessed His lifeless body being taken down from the cross, prepared and buried in the tomb, with the heavy stone rolled over its entrance. I’m sure there was a sense of desperate finality as the final rumble of stone meeting stone was heard… and then silence.
The Stillness of God
That silence is what defines Holy Saturday. God does not speak. There are no miracles. No visions. No appearances of angels or prophetic words. The tomb is closed, and God seems utterly absent. The disciples are scattered, fearful, and in shock. Even Mary, who had treasured all things in her heart from the day the angel first spoke to her, now must sit in grief beside Joseph’s borrowed tomb.
This silence is sacred. It is not the silence of abandonment—it is the silence of waiting. But from the perspective of those who lived it, it was desolation. They did not yet know how the story would end. To them, the promises seemed broken, the mission failed, the Kingdom delayed. All they had left was a memory of Jesus’ words and the ache of hope deferred.
And that is often where we live. Between promise and fulfillment. Between Good Friday’s pain and Easter Sunday’s joy. In the long, confusing silence of Saturday.
Faith in the In-Between
We see moments like this throughout Scripture as well. Abraham, in those few moments before making a sacrifice of his only son Isaac, must have felt the knife of doubt as much as the knife he held in his hand. God had promised descendants through Isaac—yet now God asked him to give Isaac up. The faith that was “credited to him as righteousness” did not come from perfect understanding but from trust in the middle of contradiction.
So too with Joseph, languishing in the Egyptian prison. He had received dreams of greatness, of God’s favor, of leadership and blessing. But those dreams seemed impossibly far away in the darkness of the dungeon. Yet it was precisely in the waiting—in the years of silence—that his faith was formed into something steadfast and wise.
The psalms, too, are full of “Holy Saturday moments.” “How long, O Lord?” David cries again and again. “Will you forget me forever?” (Psalm 13). These laments are not the voices of faithlessness, but of faith struggling honestly before God. They reveal a God who invites our questions, our confusion, and even our frustration. In doing so, they teach us that faith is not the absence of doubt, but trust in the midst of it.
The Modern Idol of Certainty
This may be why modern evangelicalism struggles so deeply with doubt. We have, in many places, elevated certainty to an idol. We confuse faith with intellectual security, discipleship with having the right answers, and orthodoxy with the inability to ask new questions. We have learned to preach “victory” so loudly that we no longer know how to sit in silence.
Yet the church of the past—the church of the saints, mystics, and martyrs—knew the value of “the cloud of unknowing.” The mystics spoke of the “dark night of the soul” not as something to be feared, but as something through which God forms His saints. It was in St. John of the Cross’s darkness that he found greater intimacy with God.
When we sanitize our theology of its mystery, we lose the very heart of what it means to walk by faith. Hebrews 11 defines faith not as knowing everything, but as the assurance of things hoped for and the conviction of things not seen. Faith leans forward, hopeful yet uncertain, precisely because we cannot yet see the whole picture.
Waiting in Hope
Holy Saturday tells us that waiting is not wasted. The disciples’ grief does not nullify the promise—it prepares their hearts to fully receive it. When Easter morning dawns, it is not the victorious who recognize the risen Christ first, but the grieving. Mary Magdalene, still weeping in the garden, hears her name spoken by her risen Lord. Her waiting becomes wonder. Her sorrow becomes song.
In our lives, too, God often works in the silence. Not through flashy miracle or instant resolution, but through stillness that draws us deeper into dependence. The silence of God is never His absence—it is the quiet preparation of resurrection.
Holy Saturday faith is the kind that waits beside the tomb, trusting that even when everything looks finished, God is not done. It is the faith that still comes to the grave, still rolls the spices, still keeps watch through the night—because love compels it.
Living Holy Saturday Faith
To live “Holy Saturday faith” in our own world means learning to embrace mystery. It means discipling our hearts to sit in unanswered questions without despair. It means comforting others not with platitudes but with presence. It means teaching our children that God is faithful even when He seems silent, and that wrestling with faith is not rebellion but relationship.
Perhaps this is the witness the modern church most needs: a people unafraid to sit in the tension between death and resurrection, who confess with trembling lips, “I believe—help my unbelief.”
In the end, Easter does not erase Holy Saturday—it redeems it. The silence becomes a stage for the song of resurrection. The darkness becomes the fertile soil from which new life bursts forth. And the waiting becomes testimony that our hope is not in our certainty, but in the God who transcends it.
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.
