Category Archives: Christian Metaphysics

A Deep Relationship Without Guarantees?

Picture this: you’re diving headfirst into the depths of a relationship, pouring out your soul, investing time and trust, only to be told there’s no promise of anything good coming your way—no security, no tangible benefits, just an endless plunge into emotional waters with no shore in sight. Sounds like a recipe for heartbreak, doesn’t it? Yet, that’s precisely the distorted portrait Dane C. Ortlund paints in his book “In the Lord I Take Refuge.” He takes the raw, promise-packed Psalms and spiritualizes them into a misty refuge of inner comfort, stripping away the concrete guarantees of healing, prosperity, and deliverance that God Himself embeds in His Word. Ortlund prioritizes a “deep” relational intimacy with God while sidelining the very assurances that make such depth meaningful. It’s like inviting someone to a feast and serving only air—satisfying in theory, but starving in reality.

I have picked Ortlund as a typical example, and not because he is somehow worse than the average faithless or traditionalist.

This approach isn’t just a mild misreading; it’s a slap in the face to the Almighty. Human relationships, even flawed ones, come with built-in guarantees. My bond with my parents wasn’t some ethereal vibe; it carried the weight of promised help, unwavering love, and practical support through thick and thin. With my identical twin brother, Joshua, our connection was laced with absolute commitments—we had each other’s backs, no questions asked. Marriages thrive on vows that spell out fidelity, care, and mutual upliftment. If earthly ties demand such reliability, how much more should our covenant with the Creator? The Psalms don’t whisper vague spiritual consolations; they roar with divine pledges that encompass the whole person—body, soul, and circumstances. To suggest otherwise is to demote God below the level of faithful pagans, turning His fatherly embrace into Satanic emotional abuse. The God the faith-fumblers portray, confuse God and Satan, as if it is difficult to separate the two.

Turn to the Scriptures, as we must, and let them interpret themselves with unflinching logic and context. Psalm 91 doesn’t mince words about the guarantees flowing from dwelling in God’s shelter. “Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty,” it declares, setting the stage for a relationship rooted in trust. But it doesn’t stop at inner peace; it unfolds into ironclad protections: “Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence… No harm will overtake you, no disaster will come near your tent… With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation” (Psalm 91:1, 3, 10, 16, NIV). Here, the relational depth—acknowledging God’s name and loving Him—triggers tangible outcomes: rescue from plagues, angelic guardianship, victory over threats like lions and serpents. This isn’t spiritual fluff; it’s God committing to override physical dangers for those who call on Him. Faith-fumblers might frame this as mere emotional steadiness amid trials, but the text demands more—it’s a blueprint for faith that expects and receives real-world deliverance.

Similarly, Psalm 103 explodes with benefits that refuse to be confined to the spiritual realm. “Praise the Lord, my soul, and forget not all his benefits—who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s” (Psalm 103:2-5, NIV). Forgiveness and healing stand side by side, both as guaranteed outflows of God’s compassionate character. The context here is a fatherly relationship: “As a father has compassion on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him” (v. 13). This isn’t abstract renewal; it’s holistic restoration—sins wiped clean, bodies mended, desires fulfilled with prosperity and vitality. To spiritualize healing as just “comfort” or emotional “renewal” without physical application, as Ortlund does, is to gut the verse of its power. God doesn’t dangle carrots He won’t deliver, not that Satan’s job. Satan is the world expert on carrot dangling, but God brings to the table to Abraham where healing is daily bread on the table. His promises are yes and amen in Christ, extending to the material world He created and redeems.

And then there’s Psalm 34, where David, fresh from feigning madness to escape danger, testifies to God’s reliability: “I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears… This poor man called, and the Lord heard him; he saved him out of all his troubles… The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles” (Psalm 34:4, 6, 17, NIV). Notice the repetition of “all”—not some, not most, but every single trouble. This psalm ties relational seeking to comprehensive rescue, including from physical perils like broken bones or lack (v. 10: “Those who seek the Lord lack no good thing”). It’s a call to taste and see God’s goodness, not in spite of circumstances but by transforming them. Faith-fumblers emphasis on prayerful reflection without prescribing outcomes misses this: faith isn’t passive endurance; it’s active expectation that God will act as promised, destroying enemies, sickness, and want.

Drawing from the broader biblical narrative, this pattern holds from Eden onward. God’s original design in the Garden was a relationship of total favor—provision without toil, health without decay, dominion without opposition. Sin fractured it, but His gospel to Abraham reinstated guarantees: land, fame, military victories, health, wealth, descendants, blessing that overflowed materially and spiritually (Genesis 12:2-3). Jesus embodied this, healing all who came to Him, not as optional extras but as faithfulness to His old promise to Abraham and Jesus’ finished atonement. (Matthew 8:16-17, fulfilling Isaiah 53:4-5). Jesus Christ didn’t spiritualize away the promises; He commanded faith to move mountains, heal the sick, and prosper in every way (Mark 11:23; 3 John 1:2). God’s salvation is total, encompassing body and spirit. Sickness isn’t His signature—it’s Satan’s graffiti on His masterpiece, and faith in the atonement erases it clean.

Vincent Cheung echoes this in his writings on faith and sovereignty, noting that true biblical faith grasps God’s promises without apology, applying them directly to life’s battles (from Sermonettes Vol. 6, p. 81, “Two Views on God’s Word”). He warns against limiting the promises, and gutting Jesus’ faith doctrine to hell and back, making the same scripture both promise and then negate the promise. This turns theology into a “mad house.”  We should not excuse sin or doubt by voiding the promises to make us look better. But Ortlund’s view risks fostering a faith that’s deep in sentiment yet shallow in substance, encouraging believers to settle for inner solace while the devil runs rampant in their health and finances.

Imagine God as the ultimate spouse, vowing eternal love but whispering, “No guarantees on the good stuff—just hang in there.” That’d be grounds for divine counseling! There is a person who whispers this and their name is Satan. Imagine being so confused about reality, that you married Satan, thinking you married God. People can’t tell the difference between God and Satan and yet they want to school us in doctrine?  No, the Psalms portray a God who screams, “Call to me and I will answer you” (Jeremiah 33:3, echoed in Psalms like 50:15), promising salvation, long life, and answers to our cries. Our inner peace stems from seeing Him pulverize troubles, not from ignoring them. We have heart-level calm because He grants all-around peace—enemies crushed, bodies healed, needs met. The Bible knows no split-level relationship with God: inward but not outward, spiritual but not material. From Abraham’s wealth to Jesus’ miracles, depth with God guarantees favor for the whole man.

In conclusion, Ortlund’s book, dishonors the Psalms by diluting their promises into devil devotions, training the mind to disbelieve God and bow to empiricism. True refuge in the Lord isn’t a guarantee-free zone; it’s a fortress stocked with every good thing, activated by faith. Let’s reject this faithless insult and embrace the God who delivers from “all” troubles, heals “all” diseases, and satisfies with prosperity. That’s the deep relationship worth pursuing—one where guarantees aren’t optional but the very foundation. It’s foundational because God is the who gives to us, not the other way around. The gospel is God giving all good things to us, and as Jesus told Martha, the resurrection means a good miracle now. Because God did not spare His own Son, He will freely give us all things (Romans 8:32).

Because the gospel is already completed and Jesus is already at the Father’s right hand, we already have all these benefits. They already are our definition and identity. They are already part of the active Contract relationship we have with Jesus. This means you cannot remove these guaranteed benefits without removing Jesus Himself, because they are one-thing in essence. The faith-fumblers try to subdivide Jesus and His benefits like fried chicken, but Jesus is one packaged deal. If you don’t receive healing, prosperity and favor from God today, then you cannot receive a relationship with Jesus, because that is Jesus.

The Devil Works All Things for Your Bad

Romans 8:28

This isn’t the ear-tickle many folks are after—oh no, they much prefer cherry-picking Romans 8 like it’s a cosmic vending machine: “God works all things for your good.” They sling it around like fatalists at a blame-dodging convention, faithless folks shrugging off responsibility faster than they can say, “did God really say?”

In the trusty grip of a true believer, this verse is pure gold— a rock-solid anchor showing God’s sovereignty flexing its muscles through grace to shower blessings automatically. It unfolds in a few proven ways. One, is our identity in Christ and His finished work (you know, the plot twist where the hero already wins). That’s the doctrine we geek out over here, aptly dubbed “You Already Got It.” Another is the autopilot perks of God’s goodness raining down, no strings attached because of our new creation already being reality, and because we are sons of Abraham’s blessing (Galatians 3, Luke 13:10-17). Thus, even when we’re fumbling the ball—imperfect, half-hearted, or binge-watching instead of Bible-studying—He keeps those sweet promises and covenant goodies flowing like a divine subscription we didn’t earn.

That said, the faithless take this verse and wreck it: They twist this gem into a get-out-of-jail-free card, or worse, snooze through the fine print that not every blessing hits the auto-apply button. Spoiler: Many promises and benefits require us to use our faith.

There are many blessings of our Christianity that come automatically, but others only come by active faith in God’s promises. It is the difference between a partial victory and a full victory. Full victories happen when we apply our faith to specific promises and these get piled on top of the automatic ones God is always working in us.

Folks love to trot out Romans 8:28 like it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card for every mess life throws at them. “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” They quote it with a shrug, as if God’s sovereignty means we just sit back and let the chips fall—good or bad; I mean, it’s all part of the plan, right? But that’s fatalism dressed up in Bible verses, a lazy dodge that shirks responsibility and starves faith. It’s not what Paul meant, and it’s sure not how Scripture paints the picture. The truth? The devil is out there working all things for your bad, stealing, killing, and destroying like the thief he is (John 10:10). God flips the script for His elect, but only when we grab hold by faith, resisting Satan and boldly claiming what’s ours. Ignore that, and you’re not just missing out—you’re complicit in the enemy’s playbook.

Let’s start with the basics, straight from God’s Word. Paul doesn’t toss Romans 8:28 into a vacuum; he builds it on the rock of God’s decrees for His chosen ones. As I lay out in Systematic Theology: 2025, “Take for example when Paul says in Romans 8 ‘He works all things for our good.’ God plans for a big good, and so He creates (and causes) temporary evil for the Elect to overcome, and then by this receive this big good. This can be seen in the story of Joseph. What they meant for evil, God meant it for good. This only applies to God’s elect” (p. 114). See that? It’s not a blanket promise for anyone breathing; it’s laser-focused on those God foreloved, predestined, called, justified, and glorified in that unbreakable chain (Romans 8:29-30). God’s working all for good isn’t automatic like gravity—it’s sovereign grace unleashed through faith, turning Satan’s schemes into stepping stones.

But here’s where the rubber meets the road, and where so many faith-fumblers veer off into the ditch. Satan doesn’t twiddle his thumbs while God orchestrates. No, he’s proactive, a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour (1 Peter 5:8). Sickness? Poverty? Broken relationships? That’s his handiwork, not some divine mystery. Take healing, for instance. In Acts 10:38, Peter nails it: Jesus “went around doing good and healing all who were under the power of the devil, because God was with him.” Sickness isn’t God’s autograph—it’s Satan’s graffiti on your life. Sickness Is Satan’s Glory, Not God’s. The Bible has no issue saying sickness isn’t from God; it is from Satan or the curse. This matters because if we think sickness comes from God, we won’t fight it. That is one reason Jesus battled sickness so hard while tradition doesn’t. Jesus saw sickness as Satan’s direct attack on Him, His Father, and His people. So, He smashed it wherever He found it. Sickness is Satan flipping the bird at Jesus’ atonement. Healing is Jesus slamming His fist into Satan’s face, again and again. There’s a real war here.

Think about it: if a sick person in Jesus’ crowd stayed back, nursing unbelief instead of pressing in by faith, was God “working all for good” or was Satan working all things for their misery? If you can’t tell the different, you are not one team Jesus. That was Satan working all for bad, oppressing them unchecked. The woman with the issue of blood didn’t get her miracle by quoting Romans 8:25 and waiting passively for the mysterious will of God, to show up in her life. No. She stretched her faith like a lifeline, grabbing Jesus’ hem (Mark 5:25-34). Faith activates God’s good; unbelief lets Satan run roughshod. I’ve seen it play out too many times: Christians limp along with ailments, chalking it up to “God’s will,” when Scripture screams otherwise. Isaiah 53:4-5, Matthew 8:17—Jesus bore our sicknesses on the cross, just like our sins. To call disease divine is to blur Jesus and Satan, like mistaking the Shepherd for the wolf in a police lineup. And folks who can’t tell the difference want to lecture on theology? That’s rich, like a blind man critiquing Picasso.

This isn’t just about healing; it’s the whole kit and caboodle. Poverty? Satan loves keeping you scraping by, but God promises abundance through faith in His covenant (Deuteronomy 28:1-14, Galatians 3:14). Broken relationships? The enemy sows discord, but faith claims reconciliation and peace (Ephesians 2:14-16). Lack in any area? It’s the devil grinding you down, but God’s working for good kicks in when you repent of unbelief and ask boldly. Peter includes healing in Jesus’ “doing good” (Acts 10:38). Yet unbelievers redefine God’s goodness as handing out cancer then forcing Romans 8:28 down your throat. Why does their definition of God sound like Satan; why does it sound like paganism? Pagan gods are fickle; our God is faithful to His promises when we believe.

Paul’s golden chain in Romans 8 isn’t a passive conveyor belt—it’s a call to live in the reality of God’s decrees. “And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified” (Romans 8:30). This sorites shows the certainty. The conclusion is: ‘All those God foreloves are those He glorifies. God’s direct and absolute sovereignty is Christian reality and causality. But on the human level, where we live and fight, faith is the key that unlocks it. Without it, you’re letting Satan work overtime for your bad. James 4:7: “Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” Resistance isn’t optional—it’s commanded. And how do you resist? By faith alone, speaking to mountains, commanding demons, claiming healing (Mark 11:23, James 5:15).

God’s sovereignty undergirds it all. Even temporary evils, like Joseph’s betrayal, God means for good (Genesis 50:20). But that’s no excuse to wallow. Faith turns the tide. When you ask for healing, and God heals your cancer, this healing makes you stronger than ever: you grow stronger in your inner man, mature as a Christian, and get more complete with God’s fullness.  Receiving by faith—miracles, provision, breakthroughs—that’s experiencing God’s love poured out (Romans 5:5), and it grows the inner man. It’s not arrogance; it’s agreement with His Word. Vincent Cheung, puts it sharp: mature doctrine is “not what we do for God, but what God does for us” (from his essay “What Is Mature Doctrine”).

Imagine standing in the crowd as Jesus passes by, your body wracked with some chronic ailment that’s drained your strength and hope for years. You’ve heard the stories of His power, yet there you linger at the edges, too timid or doubtful to push forward and claim what’s yours. In that moment, calling your suffering “God working all things for your good” is a flat-out misrepresentation, like confusing a thief’s raid with a father’s provision. No, that’s Satan grinding away at you, stealing your vitality and joy while you stand idle, essentially handing him the reins. Romans 8:28 isn’t a passive blanket over every hardship; it’s God’s sovereign promise activated in the lives of those who love Him through bold action. But if you hang back, refusing to stretch your faith like the woman who grabbed the hem of Jesus’ robe in faith, you’re willingly aligning with the devil’s agenda—letting oppression linger when deliverance is within reach. It’s as if you’re at a banquet, starving because you won’t pick up the fork, all while blaming the host for your hunger, saying, “my host is working all my hunger for my good.” No, that’s just you being stupid and hypocritical.

The instant you shatter that unbelief and cry out in faith for healing, that’s when Jesus steps in to rework that slice of your existence for your ultimate good, much like how salvation dawns only upon repentance, ushering in those refreshing times Peter preached about in Acts 3:19. On our human level, where God engages us relationally, many facets of His benevolent orchestration remain unmoved until we exercise faith—stretching it out, as that bleeding woman did amid the throng, her touch drawing power from Him and turning her torment into God’s testimony (Mark 5:25-34). It’s not that God’s power is stingy; it’s that He’s predestined it this way, honoring faith by giving us the world. Think of forgiveness: the cross already paid the price, but the “working for good” ignites when you confess and receive. So, don’t just quote Romans 8 like a talisman against trouble; live it by resisting Satan fiercely, claiming healing as your inheritance, and watching how faith transforms the devil’s bad intentions into God’s brilliant turnaround—like turning a battlefield rout into a victory parade, with a wink from heaven saying, “See what happens when you believe?”

If there is part of your life you have lived in unbelief for 30 years, then it’s 30 years wasted in the area. We must be honest about that. But once you turn your faith to God to receive purchased gospel blessings and miracles, then at that point God begins to work it for your good, in 100-fold. Sure, even in your lack of knowledge and unbelief, God’s grace still kept you from much harm that you didn’t even see, and helped you in ways you did not notice, but you will not fully experience God working all things for your good until you stop the unbelief and have faith for miracles.

Picture this: Jesus, our ultimate High Priest, locked Himself into an unbreakable covenant with us—a divine deal sealed in the blood of His gospel, doling out every last goodie it promises. That’s His lane, His unbreakable priesthood. He shows up exclusively as the ultimate Good News Delivery Guy, not some cosmic prankster promising healing but sneaking in cancer in the backdoor.

Sickness? Nah, that’s not in His portfolio: it’s not his ministry, it’s not part of His contract with us. That’s Satan’s shady side-hustle, his knockoff priesthood peddling misery like bad infomercials. If you’re gunning for that Romans 8 remix—”all things working for your good”—you’ve gotta strut up to your High Priest with the confidence of a kid raiding the cookie jar. Boldly claim those promises: ask big, receive huge. Skip that step? Congrats, you’re handing Satan the reins on the sickness parade, the poverty pity party, the relationship trainwrecks, and the “why me?” lack attacks. And labeling that mess God’s handiwork. That’s like accidentally calling Jesus “Satan” at a family reunion. Face-slap city.

Want the full God-orchestrated glow-up? Then resist Satan like your life depends on it, because it does. Step up in faith, swing for the fences with audacious asks, and watch supernatural miracles rain down like confetti at a victory bash. No detours, no Plan B hacks. But hey, why chase shortcuts when this is the VIP route? God’s blueprint; its the one where faith alone hands you the keys to the kingdom, the Spirit’s turbo boost, and a lifetime supply of every good thing. All of it? Working overtime for your epic win, in every plot twist of your story.

Why settle for another way? This is God’s way—the good way, where by faith alone you possess the world, the Spirit, and all good things, with every part of life worked for your ultimate victory. Satan plots your downfall, but faith lets God rewrite the story. Choose faith, and watch the devil’s bad become God’s grand slam. After all, if God’s for us, who can be against us? (Romans 8:31).

Your Peace

In Luke 10:5-9 and Matthew 10:12-13, Jesus lays out a blueprint for His disciples that’s as straightforward as it is revolutionary to the faithless. “Whatever house you enter, first say, ‘Peace be to this house.’ And if a man of peace is there, your peace will rest on him, but if not, it will return to you. Stay in that house, eating and drinking what they give you; for the laborer is worthy of his wages. Do not keep moving from house to house. And whatever city you enter and they receive you, eat what is set before you; and heal those in it who are sick, and say to them, ‘The kingdom of God has come near to you,’” (Luke 10:5-9 LSB). Matthew echoes this: “As you enter the home, give it your greeting. If the home is deserving, let your peace rest on it; if it is not, let your peace return to you,” (Matthew 10:12-13 NIV).

Jesus operated as a man born under the law, anointed with the Spirit’s power for ministry—not relying on His divine nature, but showing us how a Spirit-empowered human crushes Satan’s works. He didn’t do miracles in “Jesus power” as God incarnate flexing; no, He modeled what a man filled with the Spirit could achieve. And here’s the kicker: that same Spirit, that same authority, He handed off to His followers. On the relative level—the human level where we live, fight, and pray—it’s “your peace,” not God’s. Once bestowed, it’s ours to wield, to give or withdraw as we see fit. Luke ties it to faith with that simple “first say”—a command spoken in confidence, expecting results because God’s sovereign mind integrates His power so seamlessly into our reality that when we declare it, heaven backs us up.

Think about it deductively. Premise one: God is sovereign, decreeing all things, including the authority He delegates to His elect (Matthew 28:18-20; Acts 1:8). Premise two: Jesus, post-resurrection, pours out this authority on believers through the Spirit, commanding us to heal the sick and advance His kingdom (Luke 10:9; Mark 16:17-18). Conclusion: If you’re born from above, this power isn’t locked in heaven waiting for a divine mood swing—it’s yours now, on the human level, to command peace over homes, sickness, and even demonic strongholds. Deny that, and you’re not just short on faith; you’re slapping the Spirit who anoints us for battle.

“On the human level, Jesus, the most God-centered man ever, said about both healing and forgiveness, ‘Your faith saved you.’ In Acts 10:38, Peter says all the sick people Jesus healed were ‘victimized’ or oppressed ‘by the devil.’ So, the Bible has no issue saying sickness isn’t from God; it is from Satan or the curse” (ST. p. 658). As God says in Isaiah 54, If someone attacks you, I did not send them. Or in today’s terms, if sickness attacks you, I did not send it. Jesus didn’t point to ultimate metaphysics every time He healed—He almost always pointed to the person’s faith. Why? Because that’s how God relates to us: through covenants, promises, and His good nature. Satan offered Jesus authority over kingdoms (Luke 4:5-6), but Jesus reclaimed it all at the cross, triumphing over principalities (Colossians 2:15). Now, seated at the right hand of Power, He says, “All authority has been given to Me” (Matthew 28:18 LSB), and then commissions us to use it.

But what about us today? If we don’t want to blaspheme the Spirit, our response must be that we have more than the disciples pre-Pentecost. They operated under Jesus’ direct commission, but post-resurrection, the fullness of the Spirit is poured out for power (Acts 2:33). It’s impossible to claim we have less without insulting the Spirit’s outpouring. Unlike the faithless who center on man—”Oh, that was for apostles only”—it was never about them; it was about God anointing humans to smash Satan’s works. Peter preached the baptism of power at Pentecost, and in Acts 3, he declared, “What I have, I give” (Acts 3:6 LSB)—the Name of Jesus, which we all wield. Jesus hammered it in John 14-16: ask in My name, and it’ll be done. This power mirrors binding and loosing (Matthew 18:18)—authority for any who confess Jesus as the Son of God.

Vincent Cheung nails it: “Faith trumps everything. Faith is immune to even correct theological arguments. This is not because faith could contradict sound theology, but because faith can override it” (Faith Override, Sermonettes Vol. 9, 2016, p. 14). The disciples’ peace wasn’t some ethereal vibe; it was Spirit-backed authority to bless or withhold, healing the sick as proof the kingdom’s near. Today, we don’t dust off sandals—we command peace over chaos, sickness, and oppression. If it sticks, great; if not, it returns to us, undiminished. Most Christians treat this like a loaded gun they won’t fire, begging God to pull the trigger while Satan laughs. Newsflash—He gave you the authority; use it, or you’re playing church while the kingdom stalls.

Apply this systematically. First, epistemology: Start with Scripture as God’s truth that is revealed and self-authenticating. God defines peace not as absence of trouble but victory over it—”I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33 LSB). Jesus says the peace He has, He has given to us. In God’s sovereign mind there as a substitute in Jesus. He bore the chastisement that has brought us peace. In God’s mind we already have this peace. It is given freely by grace and received by faith. Our Faith assents to this—declare peace over your home, and watch demons flee or blessings flow. Metaphysics: On the ultimate level, God decrees all; relatively, our words release it. The power of the Spirit’s peace was with the disciples; once God gave it to them, then on the human level, it is their peace, not God’s, just as my arm and my legs are mine, not God’s.

Anthropology: We’re remade as overcomers. “By faith we understand that the entire universe was formed at God’s command” (Hebrews 11:3 NIV), so speak to storms, sickness—reality obeys. Ethics: Command it. “Heal those in it who are sick” (Luke 10:9)—not optional. Reject this, and you’re siding with faith-fumblers, peddling unbelief like those who taught bad doctrine to my twin brother Joshua. They’ll be caught trying to wash blood off their hands when the Big Guy’s gavel drops.

When many seem to be fighting for all their lives to get peace, to find peace, to drive out the depression and stress and replace it with peace, Jesus offers an entirely different worldview. He expects us to have His peace. If we can give away our peace like a divine magic spell, then Jesus is presupposing we have this peace already. Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled, because I have overcome the world.” God’s peace is beyond all that we can measure. It is not merely a psychological crutch in the mind. It is peace with God. It is God’s sovereign decision to make things all around you to treat you well, so that even your enemies are at peace with you. It is blessing that surrounds you like a divine magical ward of luck. It is based on the thoughts of God’s good pleasure toward you. And God’s thoughts are reality; they create reality itself.

This peace isn’t some fragile inner calm that crumbles under the weight of life’s chaos; it’s the unshakeable reality of God’s victory invading our everyday existence, turning potential disasters into divine footnotes of rest. The idea of having peace with God is the ability and position to approach God, in His throne room of grace, to ask and then to receive the help we are asking for. Jesus Himself models this when He declares, “Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27, as quoted on p. 141). Think about it— if God’s presence shows up, as it did in Acts, it’s not content to whisper sweet nothings; it erupts in miracles, healings, and prophecies that bulldoze sickness and troubles. After destroying the troubles we can rest from them. This is God’s peace and it affects the whole life of the man who belongs to God. “Peace is not a chemical feeling in the brain. It is when you can rest from troubles.” Frankly, if your version of peace leaves you grinding through endless stress without supernatural breakthroughs, you’re settling for a counterfeit—Satan’s cheap knockoff, not the real deal that Jesus paid for with His blood. God’s thoughts toward us aren’t wishful thinking; they’re the blueprint of reality, decreeing enemies silenced and blessings overtaking us, as Isaiah 54 promises no weapon formed against us will prosper.

Yet, this peace demands we align our minds with God’s sovereign script, not man’s empirical rewrites. God’s peace flows from His unchanging nature—He doesn’t dabble in shadows or half-measures, as No ‘shadow’ of turning, for a shadow would contradict light. It’s the peace that Jesus bore our chastisement to secure: “The chastisement for our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5). God’s presence is a contradiction to suffering. For a child of God, suffering’s greatest enemy and contradiction is God’s presence. If you’re still battling for peace like it’s an uphill slog, perhaps it’s time to stop playing defense and start commanding the mountains to move—because Jesus didn’t overcome the world so we could tiptoe around it. He overcame it, so that we have peace and rest. He overcame the world so that we also overcome, and storm the gates of Hell and expand His kingdom. God creates a reality where peace isn’t pursued; it’s possessed, permeating every corner until even your foes wave the white flag.

Your peace isn’t God’s passive pat on the back—it’s delegated rest that packs more power than a nuclear bomb. Post-Pentecost, we’ve got the upgrade: baptism for power, faith to command. Don’t blaspheme the Spirit by claiming less; grab God’s peace and declare it, and watch the kingdom expand. If critics call this extreme, point them to Jesus—the original faith zealot. But for those with faith? Peace rests, kingdoms fall, and glory goes to the One who armed us for victory.

Our Identification With Christ

We live in a time when too many Christians treat Jesus like a historical figure trapped in the pages of an old book—as if His ministry was a one-and-done spectacle for the crowds in Galilee. But Scripture paints a far different picture: one where our connection to Him is so profound, so ontologically woven into the fabric of reality, that when God looks at us, He sees the exalted Christ. “God did all this to give us unshakable confidence to ask and receive, by showing us how intellectually, relationally, and ontologically we are identified with Jesus” (S.T., page 654). This isn’t some feel-good theology; it’s the bedrock of how we operate in ministry today. Because we’re united with Him—not the earthly Jesus under the law, but the resurrected King pouring out His Spirit—we do the works He did, and even greater, in the same power. Let’s unpack this, drawing straight from God’s Word, and expose the faith-bumblers who’d rather limit God than let Him loose. Limiting God is like trying to cage a cosmic supernova—spoiler: it doesn’t end well for the cage.

Consider the closeness Scripture describes between Jesus and His body, the church. It’s not a loose association, like distant relatives at a family reunion. No, it’s as intimate as a head to its limbs—where the head goes, the arms follow; what empowers one, surges through the other. Paul captures this in Ephesians 2:6, declaring that God “raised us up with Him and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus.” Think about that: right now, in God’s sovereign mind, you’re not scraping by down here; you’re enthroned above every principality, every sickness, every obstacle. This identification means that when God sees you, He sees Jesus. God thinks that right now, I am seated with Jesus in the heavenly places. As Jesus is, so am I in this world. The only reality is the reality that God’s Word creates and sustains. There is no other truth or reality. God thinks I am identified with Jesus, as part of Him. Would God deny Jesus a request? Of course not. Thus, God would not deny me a request, because in God’s mind He considers me as part of Jesus. If we miss this, we mock the gospel, trampling the finished work of Christ as if it left us half-redeemed—not identified with Jesus as part of His body—and limping along until heaven. Frankly, that’s not just bad theology; it’s a cosmic insult, like handing back a gift from the King because you prefer your old rags. Ouch—talk about a divine facepalm.

This union isn’t abstract metaphysics for theologians to debate in ivory towers. It is reality because reality is based on God’s thoughts and words. He considered the old Oshea to have died with Jesus, and a new created Oshea is defined as part of Jesus. By God merely thinking this about me is what creates, shapes, and upholds reality. You cannot get more reality than “God thinks so.” Thus, this has direct implications for ministry. Look at how Jesus Himself operated. In Luke 4:14-19, after His baptism, “Jesus returned in the power of the Spirit to Galilee… He stood up to read… ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me, because He has anointed Me to preach the gospel to the poor; He has sent Me to heal the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed.’” Here’s the key: Jesus, as a man born under the law (Galatians 4:4), didn’t rely on His divine nature for miracles. He ministered through the anointing of the Holy Spirit, just as Acts 10:38 confirms: “God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and with power… healing all who were oppressed by the devil.” Even the Son of God modelled dependence on the Spirit’s power for healing, deliverance, and proclamation. Why? Because He was born under the law and operated miracles as a man would; by this, He was the forerunner showing the church how to operate as humans empowered by the Spirit. “Jesus came as a man, born under the law, and even ministered God’s power as a saint does—by the power of the Spirit” (p. 654). He wasn’t flexing inherent deity in isolation; He was demonstrating how Spirit-empowered humanity crushes Satan’s works. Picture Jesus as the ultimate tutorial video: “How to Wreck the Devil’s Plans in Three Easy Steps.”

Now, fast-forward to the ascension. Jesus doesn’t leave us orphaned or downgraded. Instead, He commands the disciples in Acts 1:4-8: “Do not leave Jerusalem, but wait for the Promise of the Father… for John truly baptized with water, but you shall be baptized with the Holy Spirit… But you shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be witnesses to Me.” This isn’t optional equipment for apostles only—it’s the same Spirit, the same power, poured out on all believers for ministry. Peter echoes this in Acts 2:33, noting that the exalted Jesus “received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit” and poured it out. The result? The early church exploded with miracles, healings, and bold proclamation, far beyond what one man in one place could do. “After His resurrection, Jesus commanded the disciples not to minister or spread the news until they were clothed with the same power of the Spirit.” If Jesus needed the Spirit’s anointing to start His ministry, how much more do we? Yet some theologians act like this power fizzled out after the apostles, as if God got bored with miracles. That’s not cessationism; that’s Satanism, limiting the Holy One of Israel like the Israelites did in the wilderness (Psalm 78:41). God bored? As if the Creator of quantum physics and kittens runs out of ideas.

Jesus promised we’d do “greater works” than He did (John 14:12). Not because we’re superior, but because He’s now on the throne, multiplying His power through a global body. In His earthly ministry, He was localized; now, through us, His reach is exponential. “As great as it would be to be identified with Jesus under the law in His earthly miracle ministry, it is still a limitation, because what we have is greater. This is why Jesus promised we would do greater works!” Imagine: the same Spirit that rested on Jesus now rests on you, empowering you to command mountains (Mark 11:23), heal the sick (James 5:15), and cast out demons (Mark 16:17). It’s not arrogance; it’s obedience. Faith isn’t wishing; it’s assenting to God’s definition of reality. When you speak in Jesus’ name, reality bends because you’re so identified with Him that your decree carries His authority. This is true and it is reality because God’s sovereign mind thinks so.

Satan trembles at this, which is why he peddles doctrines that sideline the Spirit—calling miracles “for then, not now,” or faith “presumptuous.” But as Vincent Cheung might say, such views are just human pride masquerading as piety. Critics will cry, “But we’re not Jesus!” Exactly the point—we’re better off now, identified with the glorified One. Paul warns in 2 Corinthians 5:16, “From now on, therefore, we regard no one according to the flesh. Even though we once regarded Christ according to the flesh, we regard him thus no longer.” If you evaluate Jesus—or yourself—from a human viewpoint, you’ll cap God’s power at what your carnal senses perceive. You’ll pray timidly, heal sporadically, and witness anemically. But embrace your union: you’re a new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17), co-heir with Christ (Romans 8:17), partaker of the divine nature (2 Peter 1:4). This means ministry isn’t imitation; it’s reality based on how God’s sovereign mind thinks about His own creation. Heal like Jesus did—lay hands, command sickness to flee—because the Spirit’s power flows through you as it did Him. Preach with authority, knowing demons flee at His name through your lips. And yes, expect greater: more salvations, more miracles, across more territory. “The power of the Spirit is so contested by many… When Jesus on His throne becomes central, the baptism of the Spirit for power becomes central” (S.T., page 399).

The same Spirit who empowers also convicts of sin (John 16:8). But what was the sin the Spirit comes to convict the world of? All? No. The Spirit’s ministry is to convict the world of the sin of unbelief—because they do not believe in Jesus. They do not believe He is God’s Son. And because they do not believe He is God’s Son, they do not believe the things He preached and did. What are some things Jesus said? “Jesus answered, ‘Truly I tell you, if anyone says to this mountain, “Go, throw yourself into the sea,” and does not doubt in their heart but believes that what they say will happen, it will be done for them. Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours’” (Mark 11:23-24). The Spirit comes to convict us of the greatest sin, which started with Satan’s temptation to Eve: “Did God really say?” It is the sin that leads and opens the door to all other sins. It is the defining sin of the faithless; they refuse to believe God and they refuse to believe Jesus Christ.

Unbelief stopped Jesus in Nazareth (Mark 6:5-6), not besetting sins and not Satan. If sickness lingers or prayers seem unanswered, it’s not God’s will changing—it’s our faith needing sharpening, or perhaps a fresh infilling of the Spirit’s power. Pray in the Spirit (Jude 1:20), building yourself up in God’s love. “Sickness is Satan’s victory lap. Jesus did not just patch up boo-boos; He threw haymakers at the devil’s disease factory” (Systematic Theology, page 648). Join the fight; wield the power. Because who doesn’t love a good spiritual smackdown?

Look at how Jesus kicked off His Galilean ministry in Luke 4:14-15—He returned “in the power of the Spirit,” and suddenly news spread like wildfire, with Him teaching in synagogues and getting glorified by everyone. This isn’t some vague spiritual high; it’s raw, divine dynamite exploding into action. Jesus, as a man born under the law, didn’t launch His world-shaking work until after His baptism, when the Spirit descended like a dove and empowered Him to heal, cast out demons, and preach with authority that left jaws on the floor. The Holy Spirit wasn’t just tagging along; He was the engine, turning Jesus’ steps into a kingdom invasion that demolished Satan’s strongholds. And here’s the kicker—Jesus didn’t hog this power. In Acts 1:8, He promises His followers the same deal: “You shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you,” turning ordinary folks into unstoppable witnesses from Jerusalem to the ends of the earth. This isn’t optional fluff; it’s the blueprint for Christian life. If we’re co-heirs with Christ, why settle for powerless piety when the Spirit’s ready to supercharge us for miracles and bold proclamation? God’s not stingy—He’s lavishing this power on anyone hungry enough to receive it. Without the Spirit’s baptism, we’re just playing church while the devil throws a party.

The faithless treat this power like an ancient relic gathering dust in some theological museum, when Scripture screams it’s for now. Jesus returned in the Spirit’s power after fasting and facing down Satan, emerging not weakened but weaponized for ministry—teaching that silenced critics and healings that restored the broken. That same Spirit, poured out at Pentecost, isn’t a one-time fireworks show; it’s the ongoing promise for Abraham’s kids through faith (Galatians 3:14). When Acts 1:8 hits, it’s Jesus saying, “Wait for the download—then go conquer.” This power isn’t about flashy showmanship; it’s God’s sovereignty flexing through us, making the impossible routine. Think about it: if Jesus needed the Spirit’s anointing to crush the devil’s works (Acts 10:38), how much more do we? Yet, some peddle a gutless gospel, ignoring this dynamite because it messes with their unbelief. Nah, the Spirit’s power is our birthright—grab it, and watch reality bend as we advance the kingdom, just like our Lord did. Anything less is selling short the God who turns water-walkers into world-changers. Pro tip: Don’t be the guy who brings a squirt gun to a divine water fight.

In closing, our identification with Christ isn’t a doctrine to shelve; it’s dynamite for daily living. Because we’re one with Him, we minister in the same way—Spirit-anointed, faith-fueled—and with the same power, only amplified. Don’t know Him from a human viewpoint anymore; know Him as the enthroned Lord, and yourself as seated there too. Speak to storms, sickness, and souls; watch heaven invade earth. If that sounds radical, then it exposes that your heart is hard. As Scripture says regarding the disciples’ surprise at Jesus’ miracles: they were surprised “because they did not consider the loaves.” Jesus expected them to extrapolate the miracle of multiplication of material substance to be a regular activity. Their inability to see miracles as common and regular indicated their hearts were as hard as stone. Let us cast off any stony parts of our hearts and put on a heart of faith and the Spirit. Miracles, the Spirit, and healing are the gospel. And if critics scoff, well, they’re just cheering for the wrong team in this cosmic showdown. Don’t wash your hands with them, unless you wish to partake of their judgment.

Seeing Jesus Is Seeing The Father

John 14:9 “Anyone who has seen me has seen the Father.”

This is not a warm fuzzy or a theological footnote; it is the hinge on which everything turns. It is seeing God. It is God. Because this is God, you cannot get more God centered than God. Every step Jesus took, every command He barked at disease, every miracle that left crowds speechless; these are the Father’s fingerprints. When you read the Gospels’ testimony of what Jesus did, two things dominate the record more than His sermons: healing the sick and working miracles. That is not coincidence. That is revelation. When you see Jesus healing and providing miracles more than sermons, you see God. You get a revelation about who God is. Buckle your seat belt, because it doesn’t get more God centered than this.

God is a healer by nature, not by contract or mood swing. Jesus healing, and healing and healing shows us God. To claim He will not heal when we ask is to call the Son a liar and to deny that seeing Him is seeing the Father. Jesus always healed, despite all those people having their own sins. He still healed them all. He spent more time restoring bodies than expounding parables. That is Jesus. Because that is Jesus, that is the Father.

As Vincent Cheung said in the essay, “Healing and God’s Nature,”

“No one insists that a man must hear the gospel only from someone who carries a gift of evangelism. The gospel carries power by its own divine content, because it reveals the nature and work of God in Christ. Likewise, healing does not wait upon the presence of some charismatic specialist, nor does it depend on the operation of revelatory signs to prove Scripture. It belongs to the same redemptive reality as the forgiveness of sins. The Lord is the healer, as much as he is the savior, judge, or provider. He acts from who he is. God does not work justice only when there is new revelation that he must authenticate. Justice is who he is. And God does not provide only when it is tied to some special promise or covenant. He revealed himself as the Lord who provides and who gives the power to get wealth. Prosperity is who he is. He is not made to become something he is not by a covenant. These are expressions of his very being. He is the one who is, before all covenants and promises, and what he is cannot be canceled by human tradition or theological deceit.”

Look at the Gospels. Luke 4:18-19 is Jesus’ mission statement—preaching good news, liberty to captives, sight to the blind, freedom to the oppressed. Then the text explodes: demons flee, fevers vanish, lepers are cleansed, the dead stand up. He could have camped in synagogues dissecting doctrine, but He moved from village to village, touching the untouchable, commanding paralysis to pack its bags. Why the obsession? Jesus was showing us the Father. “If you see me, you see the Father.” Satan victimizes through sickness (Acts 10:38), but the Father counters with healing and miracles. Every restored body is the Father dismantling the devil’s work.

If healing were optional, Jesus wasted daylight; but since it is central to God being God, those miracles were the message. Because the message comes from God and healing is God, the message is about healing, and so, a few signs will be used to authenticate this message, which is about healing. If the gospel message is brimming with promises of physical healing, deliverance from oppression, and the unleashing of resurrected power through faith, then how on earth does it make sense to say the signs pointing to that message deliver more substance than the message itself? It’s like advertising a feast with mouthwatering samples, only to serve up empty plates at the main event. The authentication would end up wielding more power than the finished atonement or even Jesus Himself, seated in glory at the Father’s right hand. The pointer becomes mightier than the pointed-to finished gospel, and the king’s banner, greater than the king himself. If the healing authenticating miracles promised healing but the finished product withholds it, we’re left with a gospel that’s all sizzle and no steak—a cruel joke that only Satan could have conceived. (And this is beside the point that Abraham’s gospel and Jesus’ atonement makes such reasoning a fallacy of composition.)

God revealed Himself as “The Lord who Heals you,” Exodus 15:26. In this verse, God reveals Himself as the Healer to the Israelites after they experienced bitter water at Marah, promising to keep them from the diseases of the Egyptians if they obey His commandments. It was directly and originally about physical healing, not some mystical spiritual healing. He is the God who heals you. God is healer, as God is the Word, or God is Love, or God is Power. Healing is who God is.

This flows straight from the atonement. Isaiah 53:4-5 is blunt: “Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering… by his wounds we are healed.” Matthew 8:17 nails this as physical healing to Jesus’ ministry—He carried sickness the same way He carried sin. In the substitutionary atonement, Jesus took 39 stripes in exchange for my healing. It is already done. In the Father’s mind, my sicknesses were lifted off me and laid on Him. James 5:15 leaves no wiggle room: “The prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up.” No asterisks, no divine maybe; just faith cashing the check already signed in blood. To treat healing as a lottery ticket is to mock the stripes. If the Father went to that length, calling it optional is like inheriting a palace and sleeping on the curb. It is not humility; it is unbelief.

Now layer on the Abrahamic promise. Galatians 3 grafts me in: “If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.” God swore to Abraham fame, wealth, health, supernatural favor (Genesis 12:2-3). Through Jesus, I inherit the whole package. The blessing of Abraham, which I have today through Jesus, includes the baptism of the Spirit and healing. Healing, long and strong life, the Spirit and miracles is part of the ancient promise of God. Jesus invoked it when He freed the woman bent double for eighteen years: “Should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound… be set free?” (Luke 13:16). It was necessary because the Father keeps covenants. Deny healing and you orphan yourself from the inheritance.

Satan’ disciples love to murmur doubt where Scripture roars certainty. They say miracles faded, healing is rare, but suffering is noble. That is the same spirit that blocked Jesus in Nazareth (Mark 6:5-6). We call it what it is: Sickness is Satan’s glory; sickness is not God’s glory. Healing is God’s glory. Accepting illness as “God’s plan” hands the devil a trophy Jesus already crushed. The Father is not glorified in my pain; He is exalted when faith claims the healing His Son bled for.

If seeing Jesus is seeing the Father, then the Father is the ultimate Healer, pouring restoration like water on dry ground. Through the atonement He swapped my broken body for healed body; through Abraham’s promise He guarantees ongoing favor. Faith is not begging; it is agreeing with His yes. The Bible assumes I need miracle power, healing, and prophecy to finish strong. Jesus spent His ministry healing more than preaching. Who am I to reverse the ratio? Thus, God is healer.

Look at the crowds pressing in—multitudes dragging their broken on mats, in arms, on hope alone—and Jesus does not give pop quizzes about sin. He heals. All of them. Matthew 4:23-24 is brutal in its simplicity: teaching, proclaiming, healing every disease and sickness. No exceptions, no “sometimes,” no “if it’s My will.” Despite all these people’s sins, Jesus healed them all. All of them. This is Jesus. This is the Father. Seeing Jesus is seeing the Father, and Jesus did not give false advertisement about the Father when He healed all of them.

If seeing the Son is seeing the Father, then the Father’s default posture toward my body is restoration, not resignation. Anything less accuses the Son of false advertising and the Father of bait-and-switch. We refuse. The same hands that shaped galaxies touched blind eyes and watched them track light. That is my God.

Flip the page to Mark 1:34—He healed many, but the “many” is not a ceiling; it is the floor of a day already crammed with preaching and exorcism. Time ran out, not power. The next morning He is gone before dawn, praying, because more towns wait with more sick. Preaching is vital, but healing is God being God; healing is God being faithful to His Promise, and healing is the kingdom breaking in.

Jesus spent more time healing than preaching because the Father is more eager to fix my body than to force me to hear another sermon about how broken it is. God is healer and so He tells me He can heal, and then He heals me. Devil dogmatics is about telling how sinful you are, and how weakened, and how sick you are from God’s curse because Adam sinned. The faithless love to tell you this, but they do not heal you. They do not remove the curse and cancer from your body. They do not remove sin conscience from the mind. They do not remove the pain in your bones. That is what we call a Devil Twilight Zone, where God loses and Satan wins by stealing, hurting and killing you with sickness.

To pray “if it be Your will” over cancer is to stare at Jesus healing a leper and mutter, “Yeah, but maybe not.” That is not humility; it’s not even cessationism, that is satanism. The Father who thundered “Let there be light” still thunders “Be whole” through the stripes of His Son. The only biblical response is to obey God and get healed.

I do not need a covenant to force the Father into being a healer—He already is, eternally, unchangeably, and the covenant is merely His gracious way of locking that healing into my specific relationship with Him. The blood oath to Abraham and the stripes on Jesus do not manufacture a reluctant God; they reveal a God who has always conceived me, in predestination and election, in perfect health within His mind, and who now binds Himself by sworn promise so that even if I have weak faith, it has something concrete to hold on to. The contract is not the cause of His healing nature; His healing nature is the cause of the contract. God makes Himself my healing in promise and by blood not because He requires motivation—He is the motivation. God is healing, and so He delights to anchor my confidence in ink that cannot fade and wounds that have already closed. To treat the covenant as a mere legal loophole is to miss the heartbeat: the Father heals because that is who He is, and every stripe, every oath, every “by His wounds you are healed” is simply Him saying, “I am God, and therefore you are healed.”

If you have seen Jesus, who always healed, you have seen The Father. He always healed those stuffed with sin; Jesus did not ask them to even repent, but always healed all of them. Think about that. Jesus never made sin a block to healing, despite healing so many. It was never mentioned. We know the crowds were very sinful people because Jesus told the crowds they were sinful. And yet, Jesus healed all of them, without qualification. If they asked, they got healed. Every single time. There was no exception to this. If you have seen Jesus, you have seen the God of creation. You have seen the Father. There is no other God but this God.

Being Amazed at Miracles Means What?

Let’s cut to the chase: if miracles leave you slack-jawed and wide-eyed, like you’ve just seen a unicorn trot down Main Street, then something’s off. Jesus didn’t perform signs and wonders to dazzle us into awe-struck paralysis. He did them to to make the supernatural as commonplace as your morning coffee. But in Mark 6, we see the disciples fumbling this basic truth, and frankly, it’s a mirror for too many of us today. The text says they were “greatly amazed in themselves beyond measure, and marveled” after Jesus strolled on water and calmed the storm. Why? “For they had not understood about the loaves, because their heart was hardened.” Ouch. Being amazed at miracles isn’t a compliment—it’s a diagnosis of heart so hard it makes granite stone envious.

To unpack this, let’s rewind to the context. Right before this watery escapade, Jesus had just fed 5,000 men (plus women and kids, so we’re talking a small stadium crowd) with five loaves and two fish. The disciples were hands-on in that miracle—distributing the food, collecting leftovers. Twelve baskets full, a neat surplus symbolizing abundance for Israel’s tribes. You’d think that would stick. But no sooner do they hop in the boat, battling headwinds on the Sea of Galilee, than Jesus comes walking on the waves like it’s a paved sidewalk. He says, “Be of good cheer! It is I; do not be afraid.” He climbs aboard, the wind quits, and boom—amazement overload. Mark doesn’t mince words: their hearts were hardened, failing to connect the dots from the miracles of loaves to this latest display of divine miracles.

What’s a hardened heart, anyway? It’s not some mystical affliction; it’s unbelief dressed up in familiarity. The disciples saw Jesus multiply food out of thin air, yet when He tames the elements, they’re shocked. It’s like watching a master chef whip up a gourmet meal and then gasping when he boils water. Jesus expected them to graduate from that miracle to the next, extrapolating His power for consistent miracles when we ask in faith, not episodic.  A soft heart would have responded with, “Of course He can walk on water—He just turned a kid’s lunch into a feast!” But hardness creeps in when we compartmentalize God’s acts, treating them as one-offs rather than deducing them as norm of His kingdom. And let’s be frank: this isn’t just ancient history. How many Christians today pray for healing, get it, and then act surprised when provision shows up next? It’s as if we’ve got amnesia about God’s track record.

This ties straight into the bigger picture of faith. Scripture hammers home that miracles aren’t anomalies; they’re God’s standard operating procedure for believers. Think about it—Jesus said in John 14:12, “Most assuredly, I say to you, he who believes in Me, the works that I do he will do also; and greater works than these he will do, because I go to My Father.” Greater than raising the dead? Calming storms? That’s the bar. But if your heart’s hardened, you’ll dismiss that as hyperbole or “for the apostles only.” Nonsense. The same Spirit that empowered Jesus empowers us, and He’s not stingy. Philippians 4:19—”My God shall supply all your need according to His riches in glory by Christ Jesus.” They are expected. Not because we are special, but because God’s word is God’s will. Being amazed? That’s for rookies. Expectation is for sons.

Now, don’t get me wrong—there’s a healthy wonder in worship, like Psalm 8’s awe at creation. We are to be filled with joy and happiness but not surprise or marvel that it happens. The amazement in Mark 6 is different; it’s mingled with fear and incomprehension, stemming from a failure to internalize prior revelations of miracles and answered prayers. Vincent Cheung nails this in his writings on faith: true belief integrates God’s acts into your worldview, making the miraculous mundane in the best way. If you’re constantly surprised by answered prayer, it’s a sign you’re not renewing your mind with the word (Romans 12:2). Hardened hearts resist transformation, clinging to natural explanations or low expectations. And here’s the witty kicker: Satan loves a hardened heart because it keeps you playing defense, reacting instead of reigning. Romans 5:17 says we “reign in life through the One, Jesus Christ.” Reigning means anticipating victory, not gasping at it.

Let’s drill deeper into the loaf connection. The feeding miracle wasn’t just about full bellies; it echoed manna in the wilderness, pointing to Jesus as the Bread of Life (John 6). The disciples missed that typology, so when Jesus dominates the sea—symbolizing chaos in Jewish thought—they’re floored. A soft heart would have seen continuity: the God who gives miracles in provision is the same God who protects with miracles. This is why Jesus often chided them with, “O you of little faith” (Matthew 8:26). Little faith isn’t no faith; it’s faith that’s mixed with unbelief and empiricism. Today, we harden our hearts with cessationist theology or prosperity-gospel Lite, where miracles are optional add-ons. But Scripture says otherwise. Acts is full of everyday believers laying hands on the sick, casting out demons—like it’s Tuesday. If that’s not your average, time to soften up that granite stone to be flesh again.

Practically speaking, how do we avoid this trap? Relentless focus on God’s promises, day and night, as Psalm 1 advises. When sickness hits, don’t marvel if healing comes—expect it because “by His stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5). Facing storms in life? Recall He who calmed the waves is in your boat. And if you’re thinking, “But Oshea, miracles aren’t that common,” that’s the hardness talking. Jesus expected them to be. In fact, He was frustrated when they weren’t understood.

This isn’t about manufacturing fake enthusiasm; it’s about alignment with reality. God’s kingdom is miraculous by definition. Ephesians 3:20 speaks of Him doing “exceedingly abundantly above all that we ask or think.” If that’s not your baseline, repent of the hardness.

Like Peter walking on water himself—until he looked away. Focus on Jesus, and miracles become normal walking, not spectacles. Focusing on the carnal sensations of what you see, hear, touch and feel, will tell you miracles is not the normal. What you see, feel and hear will turn your heart into stone. The word of God will turn it to flesh.

In wrapping this up, remember: being amazed at miracles signals a heard heart. We often want to point to a person in what we might categorize as an obvious sin, and say, they have a hard heart. Fair enough, but Jesus shows the knife is double edge and it cuts us by expound a hard heart is simply not expecting miracles as the average common thing in our lives.  Jesus wants us normalized to the supernatural, happy to receive but not stunned. When the wind ceases, you’ll nod knowingly, not gawk. That’s faith in action, and honestly, it’s way more fun than perpetual surprise.

But wait, there’s more to chew on. Consider how this hardened-heart syndrome infects modern church culture. Some celebrate testimonies as if they’re anomalies, clapping wildly for what should be routine. “God healed my headache!” Cue the applause. But Jesus fed thousands and expected His followers to top it. If we’re not seeing that level, it’s not God’s fault—it’s our unbelief. Mark 6:52 links the amazement directly to not understanding the loaves, implying comprehension breeds expectation of miracles.

This principle extends to all areas. Financial miracle? Expected. Relational restoration? Par for the course. Why? Because our God is unchanging, and His promises are yes in Christ (2 Corinthians 1:20). Hardness comes from worldly conditioning—news cycles of doom, skeptical friends, focus on how or bodies feel, or what the doctors say, or constant replaying of empiricism, or past disappointments.

Ultimately, Jesus’ rebuke-through-example calls us higher. Don’t be the disciples in the boat, mouths agape. Be the ones who say, “Of course”—and step out in faith. Miracles aren’t for amazement; they’re for our personal victories; our personal victories glorify God and advance His kingdom.

God Wrote Himself Into the Story

In the grand narrative of reality, God isn’t some distant playwright scribbling notes from afar; He’s the Author who boldly steps into His own story, revealing Himself not as a detached observer but as the central force of truth, logic, and unyielding sovereignty. This isn’t mere metaphor—it’s the bedrock of how we understand God’s control over all things, a control so absolute and direct that it eclipses every human notion of cause and effect.

Let’s begin with the chess analogy, which I first encountered in Vincent Cheung’s work, “There is No Real Synergism,” from his Sermonettes Vol. 1 (2010, Ch. 32). Imagine a high-stakes chess tournament. On the ultimate level, the player—let’s say Oshea—decides every move, positioning each piece with deliberate intent. God, in His sovereignty, is like that player, causing every event directly. For instance, God caused Oshea to believe and confess Jesus Christ as Lord, much like Oshea moves a white pawn to H3 to capture a black knight. There’s no autonomy in the pieces; they don’t twitch on their own. Yet, from the announcer’s booth, the commentary rings out: “White pawn takes black knight!” Should we scold the announcer for not acknowledging that the pawn didn’t move itself? Of course not. The announcer describes the relative level, where the action unfolds as if the pieces interact independently. In the same way, Scripture often speaks in relative terms: “Oshea buys some gum at the store from Johnny.” On this level, Oshea chooses, pays, and walks away satisfied, but ultimately, God orchestrated the entire exchange—predestining the desire, the funds, and even Johnny’s presence behind the counter. “God is absolutely and directly sovereign over all things, including knowledge, man, and salvation.” To confuse the levels is to stumble into defective metaphysics, where reprobates invent “synergism” as if man partners with God, when in truth, our every breath is His decree.

What about accountability? There’s no logical clash between sovereignty and responsibility— just distinct categories: metaphysical authorship by God, relative commands to us. Romans 9 shatters any doubt, showing accountability flows from sovereignty, not despite it. Induction guesses beyond premises, violating the law of non-contradiction, and empiricism starts with sensations rather than revelation, leading to a worldview that’s all smoke and no fire. Scripture never defines responsibility as autonomy from God; it defines it as answerability to His commands. We’re accountable because God revealed commands. In fact, our lack of control over His holding us accountable underscores His sovereignty— we can’t escape his commands any more than we can escape His decree. Romans 3:19: “The whole world [is] held accountable to God.” Not because we’re free agents, but because He’s sovereign and holds us to His commands.

The law of non-contradiction isn’t an invention of man but a descriptive label for the perpetual, unchanging motion within God’s intellect. It’s how the premises in His eternal system of thinking are invariably arranged, a constant ordering that reflects His immutable character. Picture it: God’s mind operates with such flawless consistency that to name this dynamic is to capture the essence of rational thought itself. Because this motion is eternally steadfast in Him, deviating from it in our own reasoning doesn’t just lead to error—it halts cognition altogether. We cease to think coherently; we stop being minds in the truest sense. God, in His essence, never affirms and denies the same proposition at the same time in the same respect. To do so would be to embrace absurdity, to become non-God, which is as impossible as light deciding to be darkness.

Why is this important? God is logic and God is truth. Thus, when God interacts with us in His story, we have absolute confidence He will do what He says.

Now, extend this to the novel analogy, where God’s sovereignty shines even brighter. Imagine God authoring a fantasy epic—not with borrowed concepts, for even our ideas of storytelling originate from Him, the eternal Mind who is truth incarnate. As the law of contradiction itself, God doesn’t pen illogical tales or weave deceptions; His narrative is coherent, immutable, and brimming with his own good purpose. The characters within don’t perceive the Author; they navigate their world of quests and conflicts, unaware of the hand that shapes their fates. But here’s the divine twist: God writes Himself into the story. He enters as the hero who proclaims life abundant, decrying Satan as the thief who steals, kills, and destroys (John 10:10). In a Contract sealed by His Son’s blood, He pledges unwavering good—fish for fish, healing for affliction, prosperity for lack. As High Priest, He ministers righteousness, the blessings of Abraham, and wholeness, relating to His insiders on terms of unmerited favor alone. Isaiah 54:15 captures this: “They will surely gather against you, but not by Me.” Though sovereign over all on the ultimate plane, God declares on the relative level that attacks aren’t His doing; He didn’t send you sickness; it’s the devil attacking you, not God. Because He is truth—the very structure of logic—we trust this self-revelation without shadow or shift.

Jesus has a priesthood, in a blood contract promises to only relate to us in certain ways. These ways are a savior, our Father, our healer, our wealth provider, our blessing of Abraham giver and so on. There is no other way God relates to insiders.

Satan, that counterfeit priest of darkness, peddles a ministry of sickness, poverty, and despair. If disease grips you or lack drains your spirit, it’s not the Author’s handiwork but the adversary’s sabotage. Its not Jesus’ priesthood that kills your body, robs your wealth and steals your joy. Yet, here’s where the frank rebuke lands: If you tolerate Satan’s priesthood of sickness, death and pain, without resistance, you’re complicit in the plot twist that glorifies the villain. Scripture commands, “Resist the devil, and he will flee from you” (James 4:7 NIV), not “Endure his torments piously.” Faith-fumblers, those reprobate theologians who normalize suffering as “God’s will,” expose their defective ethics—they trample the atonement, siding with demons to undermine the blood of Christ.

But for the elect, the script flips: We’re predestined for triumph, baptized in the Spirit’s power as proof of our calling (Acts 2:38-39). Peter applied election this way, linking God’s sovereign summons to the outpouring of miraculous empowerment. Jesus amplified it: “You did not choose me, but I chose you… that whatever you ask in my name, the Father may give it to you” (John 15:16 NIV). Elected to receive whatever we ask? That’s no small print; it’s the bold headline of our destiny.

In this story, miracles aren’t optional extras—they’re scripted certainties for those who believe. The Author, stepping in, models faith that moves mountains (Mark 11:23), heals the sick, and commands reality to bow. We’re not passive readers; as new creations, we’re co-authors in the relative sense, wielding His name to enforce the plot. Doubt creeps in when we forget our role, confessing empiricism’s lies instead of God’s promises. “Your faith saved you,” Jesus declared repeatedly, tying forgiveness and healing to belief, not fate or feelings. Reprobates balk, focusing on human frailty, but we fix our eyes on Him—the God who’s really, really intelligent, for whom all things are possible, and who makes them possible for us through faith.

Think of the Israelites: Spies returned with an evil report, magnifying giants over God’s promise, and perished in unbelief (Numbers 13-14). Their failure wasn’t sovereignty’s fault but their refusal to align with the script. Today, cessationists and poverty preachers repeat the error, claiming miracles ceased or wealth corrupts, but that’s anti-logic superstition. Induction, that irrational guesswork, underpins their empiricism—observing “some” failures and concluding “all” impossibilities, violating the law of contradiction. Science? It’s built on the same fallacy, affirming the consequent without necessary connections. But God’s logic—deductive, unyielding—demands we start with His self-authenticating Word, deducing victory from promises like Galatians 3:13-14, where Christ redeems us from the curse for Abraham’s blessing, including the Spirit and miracles.

The Author’s presence changes everything. He’s here, looking you in the eye, affirming your scripted win. As insiders, we’re not victims of the plot; we’re victors, empowered to expand the kingdom. Baptism in the Spirit? It’s your election badge, unleashing power for greater works (John 14:12). Prosperity and healing? They’re yours by faith, not works—God supplies, we receive. If sickness lingers or lack persists, resist with confession: “By His stripes, I am healed” (Isaiah 53:5); “He gives me the ability to produce wealth” (Deuteronomy 8:18). Don’t let defective starting points—human speculation or superstition—derail you. The narrative arcs toward glory: “All things are yours” (1 Corinthians 3:21), judging angels, inheriting the world.

In closing, embrace the Author’s gaze. He’s scripted you for abundance, not affliction. Faith aligns you with His plot, turning potential defeat into resounding victory. The story ends with God boasting about you, for the gospel was predestined for your glory; and end return you’ll be a hero whose faith glorifies the ultimate Author. And if that sounds too good, remember: God’s not stingy; He’s sovereign, and He’s written you to win. Faith is the plot device that unlocks the abundance. In fact, faith is like “plot armor” that surrounds a hero, so that no matter what comes against him, he always finds a way out and always wins.

[1] This basic idea of God’s system of thinking always moving in the noncontradiction and how it is a human way to label this order or motion is something I read and got from Vincent Cheung.

[2] Also the basic idea of the categories of God’s command and His causality I learned from Vincent Cheung, including our responsibility being based on His command not causality. Although my thoughts were already in that general direction from Reading Romans 9 before read Vincent.

If You Knew – You would Ask

“If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water” (John 4:10).

This statement, uttered by Jesus to a Samaritan woman burdened by her past, encapsulates the essence of who God is and how humanity is designed to relate to Him. There is no other God but this one—the boundless supplier who gives without end—and no other way to engage Him but through the bold act of asking in faith, with the assurance that He will provide good things. Jesus doesn’t just teach these realities; He presupposes them, building His entire dialogue on their unassailable foundation.

In the narrative of John 4:1-42, where Jesus encounters the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s well, we find a profound revelation that cuts through cultural barriers and religious pretensions like a divine scalpel. This isn’t just a story about evangelism; though it does this. At its core, Jesus unveils two foundational truths about God and our relationship with Him, truths He both teaches explicitly and presupposes as the bedrock of reality. First, God is the ultimate wellspring, the rich supplier who pours out blessings upon us; we don’t supply Him, for He lacks nothing and gives everything good. Second, Jesus operates on the assumption that when a human stumbles upon God; the natural, immediate response should be to ask for those good things, with the certainty that God will deliver. These aren’t optional insights; they’re woven into the fabric of who God is and how He relates to us. This is similar to us seeing Jesus healing all those people in the gospels, and He says, “if you have seen Me, You have seen the Father.” This is how God is, and how He relates to us.

Consider the setting: Jesus, weary from travel, sits by the well at noon, a time when the heat drives most indoors. The Samaritan woman arrives, burdened not just by her water pot but by a life of relational wreckage—five husbands and now living with a sixth man who isn’t her husband. Jesus initiates the conversation by asking for a drink, flipping the script on who gives to whom. But here’s where the first point emerges with crystalline clarity. Jesus quickly pivots from physical water to “living water,” a metaphor for the eternal life and refreshment only He can provide. “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink,” He says in verse 10, “you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.” Notice the emphasis: God is the giver, the supplier. The woman, intrigued but skeptical, points to the well’s depth and Jesus’ lack of a bucket, but He presses on, describing this living water as a spring welling up to eternal life. God isn’t depicted as a needy deity demanding our meager offerings; rather, He’s the inexhaustible source, rich beyond measure, who delights in supplying our deepest needs.

This presupposition about God’s nature aligns seamlessly with the broader biblical witness. God’s self-existence and immutability mean He lacks nothing; the One who creates all things by His Word, without depleting Himself. As Psalm 50:12 declares, “If I were hungry I would not tell you, for the world is mine, and all that is in it.” God doesn’t need our water pots or our rituals; we need Hi. How often do we reverse this; It’s a subtle idolatry, one that creeps into prayers where we “offer” God our service to buy things from God. But God’s goodness isn’t stingy; it’s lavish, as James 1:17 reminds us, every good and perfect gift coming down from the Father of lights, who doesn’t change like shifting shadows.

Building on this, the second point Jesus presupposes is the dynamic of our relationship with God: encounter Him, and the instinctive move is to ask boldly for good things, with the assurance they’ll be granted. The woman doesn’t fully grasp it at first; she’s fixated on literal water, asking in verse 15, “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water. Jesus assumes that recognizing God, should lead to immediate asking, and that asking in faith yields results.  The presupposition is clear: God is eager to give, and faith receives.

This isn’t some isolated anomaly; it’s the pattern Jesus models throughout His ministry. In the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 7:7-11), He teaches, “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” He presupposes a Father who gives good gifts to those who ask, contrasting Him with earthly parents who wouldn’t hand a snake instead of fish. Here at the well, Jesus lives this out, offering living water freely to a Samaritan outsider, no strings attached beyond recognition and request. The woman, despite her messy past, gets it quicker than many theologians today. She asks, and Jesus delivers; not just water, but revelation that sparks a revival in Sychar. Verses 39-42 show many Samaritans believing because of her testimony, culminating in their own confession: “We know that this man really is the Savior of the world.” Jesus presupposes a relationship where humans, frail and thirsty as we are, approach God not in groveling fear but in expectant faith, knowing He’ll supply abundantly.

Jesus assumes that upon recognizing God, the human response should be immediate and audacious—ask, and God will give good things. “If you knew,” He says, implying that true knowledge of God propels one to petition without hesitation. This dynamic presupposes faith as the primordial doctrine for God’s children: encounter Him, acknowledge your need, ask for good things, and receive. Jesus operates on the certainty that God, being good, responds affirmatively to such requests, much as a loving father gives bread for bread, not stones for bread, (Matthew 7:9-11). Jesus’ ministry reinforces this; from the centurion’s faith securing an instant healing to the promise in John 14:13-14 that whatever we ask in His name, He will do it. To relate to God differently, is to fabricate a false god.

There is no other God but this supplier of living water, and no other way to relate but through knowing, asking, and receiving. Faithless doctrines, like those peddled by cessationists or fatalists, God’s supply is rationed, miracles relegated to apostolic footnotes, but Jesus presupposes abundance for all who believe. This is the word of faith confession: affirm God’s promises, ask boldly, and reality bends. The Samaritan woman’s story rebukes our hesitations— she, an outsider with a checkered past, asks and receives, her faith igniting a harvest while the disciples fuss over lunch (verse 35).

In practical terms, this transforms our prayer life and worldview. If God is the rich supplier, we approach His throne of grace without fear, as co-heirs with Christ, demanding the blessings sworn in Abraham’s covenant—healing, prosperity, the Spirit’s power. Faith isn’t groveling; it’s the insider privilege, as angels marvel at our audacity to wrestle blessings like Jacob or command mountains like Jesus teaches. Frankly, if we’re not asking for good things—spiritual depth, physical healing, material provision—we’re relating to a counterfeit god, one who can’t or won’t give. But this God? He’s the only one who exists. Jesus presupposes if you can recognize Him as God, then your response is to open your mouth and ask for the biggest things you can thing of, like the baptism of the Spirit, eternal life and healing.  

Yet, let’s not overlook the subtle rebukes in this passage, for they mirror the defective starting points I critique in my theology. The woman’s initial focus on physical water and religious debates (verse 20) reflects humanity’s tendency toward superstition—seeking God in places or rituals rather than in spirit and truth (verse 24). Jesus presupposes a direct, asking relationship, bypassing such nonsense. The disciples’ astonishment at His conversation with a Samaritan woman exposes insider complacency, presupposing barriers where God sees free access to ask and receive. In our day, this challenges faith-fumblers who dilute prayer to “Thy will be done” as an excuse for unbelief, ignoring Jesus’ presupposition that God’s will is to give good things to those who ask in faith. As necessary as God’s nature is, are prayers on the demand of faith—anything less would make truth, false, or a circle a square.

Do we know this God, the supplier who gives without measure in healing, prosperity, deliverance and an abundance of life? The Samaritan woman’s legacy isn’t her past but her pivot to faith. And this is the greatest type of legacy; the legacy of faith.  Drop the fearful self-reliance, and recognize the Messiah is standing at the well. If you knew who God was, the first thing Jesus presupposes is that you would immediately start asking and God will start giving. There is no other God, and there is no other way to relate to this God. It is the way of faith.

The Faithless: God is non-God

When Scripture declares it’s impossible for God to lie (Hebrews 6:18), it’s not slapping a limitation on Him like some cosmic speed limit; rather, it’s positively affirming that He is truth incarnate, the Logic through whom all reality logically follows (John 1:1). This Logos isn’t some vague ideal—it’s the very Law of Non-Contradiction in divine personhood. The law of non-contradiction is simply naming a constant motion of God’s mind or describing how the premises in God’s system-of-thinking is always arranged in, and then giving a name to that constant motion or ordering. Because this motion is so constant in His own Mind, if we don’t follow that motion, then we stop thinking; we stop ceasing being a mind. Meaning God doesn’t affirm and deny the same thing simultaneously, to do otherwise is to be non-God. Because God is the law of noncontradiction, it means He is not anti-logic. Or to say it another way, because God is God, He is not non-God.

Also, His power isn’t a separate toolbox He dips into when the mood strikes; no, His choices and His omnipotence, are the same thing; they are perfect oneness. What He decrees isn’t a casual suggestion that might fizzle out—it’s as eternally binding and real as His own existence. That’s why in Romans 9:17, Paul personifies Scripture as directly confronting Pharaoh, when it was God who did so; thus scripture is regarded as God Himself. In Galatians 3:8, Scripture “foresaw” and “announced” the gospel to Abraham, when it was God who told those things. Frankly, to treat God’s word as anything less is like trying to separate the heat from the fire—you end up with neither.

Now, tether this to the prayer of faith for healing, and the necessity becomes glaringly obvious, almost comically so if it weren’t so profound. If God’s nature is necessary—meaning He must be truthful, logical, and all-powerful without contradiction—then His fulfillment of faith-filled prayers is equally non-negotiable. James 5:15 doesn’t hedge with “might” or “if it aligns with some mysterious plan”; it boldly states the prayer of faith will heal the sick, period. This flows straight from God’s self-sworn oath to Abraham, expanded in the New Covenant through Christ’s atonement, where Jesus bore our infirmities so we wouldn’t have to (Isaiah 53:4-5). To suggest otherwise—that God could promise healing on demand of faith but then withhold it—would make Him a cosmic bait-and-switch artist, violating His own non-contradictory nature. It would be the same as saying God is also non-God.  It’s the kind of theology that leaves folks limping along in unbelief, blaming “God’s will” when the real culprit is their own hesitation to grab hold of His word. But for those who get it, this necessity isn’t a burden; it’s liberation, turning every prayer into a direct line to the God who isn’t non-God.

Answered prayers aren’t some optional perk in the Christian life, like an extra scoop of ice cream on your sundae. No, they’re woven into the very fabric of who God is—His unchangeable nature, His unbreakable promises, and His absolute sovereignty. If God is truth, if He’s the Logos who spoke creation into being, then His word isn’t just reliable; it’s as necessary as His existence is necessary. Deny that, and you’re not just doubting prayer—you’re tinkering with the nature and existence of God Himself. And trust me, that’s a fool’s errand, like trying to outwit gravity while jumping off a cliff.

Take Luke 13:16, where Jesus heals a woman bent over for 18 years. He doesn’t frame it as a nice gesture or a sign to wow the crowd. Instead, He declares it “necessary” because she’s a daughter of Abraham. Necessary? That’s a strong word. It’s the kind of language you use for gravity pulling you down or the sun rising in the east. Why? Because God swore by Himself to Abraham—a promise of blessings that includes healing, prosperity, and miracles, as Galatians 3 spells out. God doesn’t make casual vows; He stakes His own name on them. Hebrews 6:13-18 drives this home: God swore by Himself since there’s no one greater, and it’s “impossible for God to lie.” His resolve is unchangeable, sealed with an oath. So, when Jesus heals her, it’s not optional—it’s God being faithful to His word, which is as integral to Him as His power, logic, infinity, immutability or eternity.

Now, picture this: God, the ultimate sovereign, predestines everything down to the last atom’s twitch. Yet, in His wisdom, He ties answered prayers to faith, making them a direct outflow of His nature. It’s not that our faith twists God’s arm. He relates to us on our level, so that faith unlocks what He’s already decreed. Jesus says in Mark 11:24, “Whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.” That’s not hyperbole—it’s the blueprint. If God’s nature is truth, then His promises aren’t pie-in-the-sky wishes; they’re ironclad necessities. Deny answered prayers on demand of faith, and you’re saying God is also non-God, or affirming a square is a circle.

This ties into the broader theology of God’s sovereignty, which isn’t some cold, fatalistic machine but a personal, intellectual decree from a God who’s “really, really intelligent.” In Systematic Theology, we see that God’s decrees aren’t arbitrary; they’re the logic of His causality, flowing from His attributes like immutability and love. He hates sickness as much as sin because both stem from the Fall, and He’s sworn to crush them under the New Covenant. Jesus bore our infirmities (Isaiah 53:4-5, as Matthew 8:17 applies it), so healing isn’t a maybe—it’s a must when faith aligns with His promise. Cessationists might squirm here, arguing miracles were just to confirm the message, but that’s like saying the sun only shines to wake you up in the morning. No, miracles are part of Abraham’s blessing, ongoing and necessary because God’s oath doesn’t expire. To say God’s promise has expired is to say God has expired. God say God doesn’t heal on the demand of faith, because that has expired is to say God has expired. As Paul notes in Galatians 3, we’re grafted in, so the Spirit and miracles are our inheritance. To say otherwise is to call God, non-God.

Consider the flip side: unbelief blocks miracles, as Jesus “could not” do many in His hometown (Mark 6:5-6). Not “would not”—could not. Why? Because the way God sovereignly decides to relations to us in on the relative level; and on this level faith is how we relate back to Him. Thus, faith is “how” His power flows to us. It’s not limiting God; it’s honoring how He set up the system. If answered prayers weren’t necessary, Jesus wouldn’t have rebuked the disciples for their lack. In John 14:12-14, He promises believers will do greater works, asking anything in His name. It’s the necessity of God shining through us. Deny it, and you’re left with a gutted gospel—forgiveness without power, like a car without an engine. Amusing in theory, but useless on the road.

Hebrews reinforces this: God wants to show the “unchangeableness of His resolve” through answered prayers, giving us “powerful encouragement” (6:17-18). It’s not about us earning it; it’s about God being God. His nature demands He fulfill what He swore—blessings for the heirs, including healing on faith’s demand. James 5:15 echoes: the prayer of faith will heal the sick. Will, not might. That’s necessity baked in. If God is immutable, then His yes is yes (Matthew 5:37). To waffle on this is to embrace superstition, like those who twist “God’s will” into fatalism: “Pray, but whatever happens will sovereignly happens.”. That’s not sovereignty; that’s Eastern mysticism disguised as a Christian drag queen. God’s sovereignty is the same as His choices and the same as Him being the law of non-contradiction; thus His sovereign decrees are specific—like healing for faith—and delivers, without being contradictive.

In the end, answered prayers are as necessary as God’s nature is necessary. As a daughter or son of Abraham through Christ, claim it. God swore by Himself—He is true, He is the law of non-contradiction. So pray boldly, believe fiercely, and watch reality bend to His word. It’s not magic; it’s reality bowing faith. And if that sounds too good, remember: God’s goodness, is bigger than our doubts and it is bigger than reality.

The Logic of Necessity: God’s Oaths and Our Faith

Diving deeper, let’s unpack the logic. God’s promise to Abraham isn’t a vague nod; it’s a deductive powerhouse. Premise: God swears by Himself to bless Abraham’s seed (Genesis 22:16-18). Premise: We’re that seed through faith in Christ (Galatians 3:29). Conclusion: Blessings, including miracles and the Spirit, are ours. Hebrews 6 seals it: two unchangeable things—His promise and oath—make it impossible for God to deceive. Impossible. That’s the law of non-contradiction at work: God can’t be true and false simultaneously.

So, when Jesus says it’s “necessary” to heal Abraham’s daughter, He’s applying this logic. Satan’s bondage? Unacceptable under the oath. Faith releases it because God’s nature necessitates fulfillment. The faithless try to dodge—”that was then. Paul’s Galatians argument hammers it: miracles aren’t apostolic perks; they’re Abrahamic promises, post-cross. To sideline them is to sideline God’s integrity, immutability, eternality, infinity, sovereignty and logic.

Frankly, too many theologians play word games, diluting “necessary” to “maybe if God’s in the mood.” But Scripture’s frank: God’s mood is His word. He wants us healed, prosperous, empowered—more than we do. Remember the bible’s maximum, “All things are possible for people with faith.” Why? Because God’s nature makes it so. Deny answered prayers, and you’re denying the God who swore them into being.

Practical Punch: Living the Necessity

How do we live this? Start with confession: affirm God’s oaths as your reality. Psalm 103:2-3—He forgives all sins, heals all diseases. Not some; all. Pray with that necessity in mind. If doubt creeps, cry like the father in Mark 9: “Help my unbelief!” Jesus honored that—necessity met honesty with miracle.

In ethics, this means obedience: faith isn’t optional; it’s commanded. Resist Satan (James 4:7), heal the sick (Matthew 10:8). It’s not showboating; it’s aligning with God’s unchangeable resolve.

Ultimately, answered prayers glorify God, by affirming God is God.  They’re necessary because He is. The faithless unanswered prayer doctrine affirm God is non-God.

Identified with the Resurrected Christ, Not the Earthly Jesus

Posted: August 25, 2025 

I want to hammer home a truth from 2 Corinthians 5:16-17 on how we see ourselves in Christ. Paul writes: “So we have stopped evaluating others from a human point of view. At one time we thought of Christ merely from a human point of view. How differently we know him now! This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!” (NLT).

The big idea: Our new creation in Christ isn’t modeled after the Jesus who walked the dusty roads of Galilee, healing the sick and casting out demons as a man under the law. This would be an amazing thing, but the point Paul is making is greater. No, that’s the “human point of view” Paul warns against—the old way of thinking that limits God and shackles your faith. Our identity is fused with the resurrected Christ, the exalted King seated at the right hand of Power. We’re not mimicking the pre-cross Jesus; we’re embodying the post-resurrection Lord. This isn’t some fluffy spiritual metaphor—it’s the explosive reality that unleashes miracles, crushes mountains, and makes “all things possible” a daily command, not a distant dream. And hey, if faith can move mountains, imagine what it does to your Monday morning coffee slump?

Let’s break this down biblically, because human speculation is just satanic superstition dressed up in theological jargon. Paul says we once viewed Christ “from a human point of view.” Think about it: During His earthly ministry, Jesus operated as a man—fully God, yes, but voluntarily limited, born under the law (Galatians 4:4), baptized in the Spirit for power (Luke 3:22, 4:1), and doing the Father’s works through that anointing (John 14:10). He was the forerunner, showing us how a Spirit-empowered human crushes the devil’s works. But that was the old covenant shadow. Post-resurrection? Jesus ascends, pours out the same Spirit on us (Acts 2:33), and now sits enthroned, far above all rule and authority (Ephesians 1:20-21). That’s the Christ we know now—the victorious, glorified One whose name we wield like a divine sledgehammer. Swing it wisely, folks; for Paul tells us, with great power should come great love.

Your new creation isn’t a refurbished version of your old self; it’s a total reboot, a supernatural species upgrade. “The old life is gone; a new life has begun!” Paul shouts. And this new life isn’t tethered to the earthly Jesus—it’s identified with the heavenly One. Colossians 3:1-3 nails it: “Since you have been raised to new life with Christ, set your sights on the realities of heaven, where Christ sits in the place of honor at God’s right hand. Think about the things of heaven, not the things of earth. For you died to this life, and your real life is hidden with Christ in God.” Raised with Him? Seated with Him? That’s not poetry; that’s positional truth. God sees you already enthroned above every principality, every sickness, every mountain-sized obstacle. Ephesians 2:6 doubles down: “For he raised us from the dead along with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms because we are united with Christ Jesus.”

Reprobate theologians—those faith-fumblers who peddle unbelief—love to drag us back to a “human point of view.” They say, “Well, that was Jesus; we’re just sinners saved by grace, limping along until heaven.” That’s defective metaphysics, limiting the Holy One of Israel. If we’re seated with the resurrected Christ, our identity is His identity. We are not identified in irrational ways like eternality, infinity, and immutability, because by definition we cannot. However, we’re co-heirs (Romans 8:17), joint-partakers in His divine nature (2 Peter 1:4), and authorized to use His name as if we were Him. Jesus didn’t say, “Ask in My name, but only for small stuff because you’re not Me.” No! In John 14:12-14, He promises: “Anyone who believes in me will do the same works I have done, and even greater works… You can ask for anything in my name, and I will do it.” Why? Because using Jesus’ name by faith isn’t cosplay—it’s identification so profound that your request is as if Jesus Himself spoke it. The sovereign God has decided that when you ask for something in Jesus’ Name, it is as if Jesus asked Him directly. God always hears and gives the Son what He asks for, and God has decided to do the same for us when we ask; He did this because God decided to make Jesus’ identity our identity. God decided to do this because He is sovereign and because He wanted to do it, and because He loves you.

The power is ultimately God’s and not that we have inherent power in ourselves, or in our words. However, with that being said, our identification is so substantially and relationally integrated in God’s sovereign thoughts about us that when we command something in faith, it happens. My body does not have inherent power to move, except by the power of God, even when I am typing this essay. However, God has made my body and thoughts so identified together in a relational sense that I consider my body as my own and I naturally move my fingers to type as I want. This is the same reality we now have in our identity with the resurrected Jesus. The power, authority, rich inheritance, and name of Jesus are so integrated with me in the relational sense that when I pray, stuff happens, and mountains move at the sound of my voice. Talk about a voice-activated universe—Siri’s got nothing on this!

God did all this to give us unshakable confidence to ask and receive, by showing us how intellectually, relationally, and ontologically we are identified with Jesus. However, all this is overlooking what Jesus said in John 16 by saying, in that day, I will not even ask on our behalf, because the Father loves you. As if you don’t even need a mediator, because God loves you so much—or better said, the Father loves you so much that He has already made mediation happen and be so complete that you can ask Him directly. As natural as it is for Jesus to be in His own throne room and walk around is the same degree it is for me to walk boldly in God’s throne room and walk around, because I have been so deeply identified with Jesus. This is how the sovereign God thinks about me. And only His thoughts and choices matter.

Maxim 12 from my book rings true here: “God’s gospel is a total salvation. God saves. His chosen ones are clean, righteous, co-heirs with Christ and have the Mind of Christ. They will judge the world and angels; they inherit the world. All things are theirs.” All things! That’s not hyperbole; that’s gospel fact. When you pray in Jesus’ name, commanding a mountain to move (Mark 11:23), it’s the resurrected Christ—seated above all—backing you up. Your faith confession isn’t a beggar’s plea; it’s a king’s decree. Why? Because you’re so united with Him that God hears your voice as His. “By faith” isn’t a caveat—it’s the ignition key. Faith assents to God’s definition of reality: You’re not the old you; you’re the new creation, exalted with Christ.

But here’s where the rubber meets the road—and where defective ethics creeps in. If you evaluate yourself from a “human point of view,” you’ll limit God. You’ll say, “Healing? Miracles? That’s only for Jesus’ earthly ministry, not me.” Wrong! That mindset dishonors the resurrection. Jesus’ ascension and enthronement amplify our authority, not diminish it. In His earthly ministry, He was one man in one place; now, through His body—the church—He’s multiplying miracles worldwide. As great as it would be, to be identified with Jesus’, under the law, in His earthly miracle ministry, it is still a limitation, because what we have is greater.  This is why Jesus promised we would do Greater works! If you doubt that, you’re siding with the faithless, those who trample the blood of Christ by rejecting the full scope of our new creation.

Remember the Israelites? They limited God by unbelief (Psalm 78:41), confessing giants instead of confessing confidence in God’s promise. We’re worse if we do that now—post-resurrection, post-Pentecost. Colossians 3 urges us to “set your minds on things above,” because that’s where our life is hidden. Faith to move mountains? It’s yours because you’re seated above them. Command demons? Absolutely, for you’re far above all powers. Ask for the desires of your heart? Yes, because the Father loves you as He loves Jesus (John 17:23), and your requests in His name glorify the exalted Christ and Himself.

In my book, I dedicate a chunk to ethics: “You Are the Promises of God.” That’s you—new creation, promise-embodied. Don’t evaluate Christ or yourself from a human viewpoint anymore. Know Him as the resurrected King, and know yourself as seated with Him. Faith unleashes God. Faith unleashes your identity in Jesus. Faith unleashes this: Speak to the storm, the sickness, the lack—in Jesus’ name—and watch reality bow. It’s not arrogance; it’s obedience to our new identity; it’s agreeing with God’s definition about this reality He created.