Category Archives: Extra Thoughts

Claim Your Daily Bread

The notion that Jesus’ miracles—or those of the apostles—were merely signposts to authenticate the gospel message is a theological sleight of hand that crumbles under scrutiny. It’s a convenient excuse for those who prefer a powerless Christianity, but it doesn’t hold water when you pour in the full context of Scripture. If miracles were only for validation, why did Jesus tie them so inextricably to the core of the good news? Think about it: the gospel proclaims that “by His stripes we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5, as Peter echoes in 1 Peter 2:24) and that Jesus “took away our sicknesses” (Matthew 8:17, quoting Isaiah 53:4). Jesus didn’t perform healings as some divine footnote; He used them to embody and confirm the very essence of salvation—a total rescue from sin’s curse, including disease and demonic oppression. To suggest that these miracles evaporate once the message is “authenticated” is laughable. It’s like Jesus waving a banner of healing to draw folks in, only to yank it away post-conversion, saying, “Just kidding—now suffer for My glory.” That’s not the God of the Bible; that’s a bait-and-switch straight from devil dogmatic playbook.

Jesus’ ministry was a demolition derby against sickness and devils, not a one-time spectacle. He healed multitudes, cast out demons, and raised the dead as previews of the kingdom’s power breaking in. The apostles continued the rampage, with signs and wonders marking their steps (Acts 5:12-16, 19:11-12). If these were just credentials, why command believers to do the same—and greater (John 14:12)? Why include healing in the Great Commission (Mark 16:17-18)? The gospel isn’t a historical artifact; it’s living power for today. It is “living power” as Jesus Christ is living power sitting at the right hand of Power, pouring out the power of the Spirit. Now Denying ongoing miracles isn’t humble theology; it’s unbelief masquerading as piety, limiting the Holy One of Israel just like the wilderness wanderers did, “oh no, we are to small and they are too big.” If healing was only for authentication, the gospel would be half-baked, promising deliverance from sickness but delivering excuses. No, the miracles confirm a gospel that includes healing as a core benefit, not an optional add-on.

Moving beyond that tired error, we hit the heart of the matter: the doctrine of Abraham’s blessing, sealed by Jesus’ blood. This isn’t some peripheral perk; it’s the gospel Paul defends with fire in Galatians. In Galatians 3, Paul hammers home that the promise to Abraham—”all nations will be blessed through him” (Genesis 12:3)—is fulfilled in Christ. Jesus became the curse for us, redeeming us from the law’s penalties (Galatians 3:13-14), so that “the blessing given to Abraham” comes to the Gentiles through faith. What is that blessing? Abundant increase in all things—land, descendants, victory over enemies, and yes, supernatural provision, including health and miracles. Paul doesn’t leave it vague; he ties it directly to the Spirit: “so that by faith we might receive the promise of the Spirit” (Galatians 3:14). And what does the Spirit bring? Miracles, healings, prophecies—the works of power that marked Abraham’s covenant life.

But here’s the question that exposes the wafflers: how much miracles and healing does Abraham’s gospel guarantee? Is it a sprinkle here and there, a “maybe if it’s God’s will” lottery ticket, even when faith is firing on all cylinders? Absolutely not. Scripture paints a picture of abundance, not scarcity. Consider Jesus’ encounter with the Canaanite woman in Matthew 15:21-28. She’s begging for her daughter’s deliverance from a demon—essentially a healing from torment. Jesus initially deflects, saying, “It is not right to take the children’s bread and toss it to the dogs.” Bread? Not some fancy dessert for special occasions, but bread—the staple, the daily necessity. Healing, in Jesus’ words, is the children’s bread, meant for Abraham’s offspring. The woman persists in faith, and Jesus commends her: “Woman, you have great faith! Your request is granted.” Her daughter is healed instantly. No hesitation, no “let’s see if it’s My will today.” Rather, Jesus does an opposite faith confession: he doesn’t confess by saying, “God’s will be done,” No, He confesses, “Woman your will be done.”

Jesus doubles down in Luke 13:10-17 with the woman bent over for eighteen years. He calls her forward on the Sabbath, lays hands on her, and declares, “Woman, you are set free from your infirmity.” When the synagogue leader gripes about the timing, Jesus retorts: “Should not this woman, a daughter of Abraham, whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen long years, be set free on the Sabbath day from what bound her?” Notice: it’s “necessary” (as some translations render the implication) for her to be healed because she’s Abraham’s daughter. Not optional, not probabilistic—necessary. Sickness is Satan’s chain, not God’s tool. Jesus didn’t quiz her on repentance or catalog her sins; He saw her Abraham covenant status and that alone made it necessary to heal her. This is the same Jesus who healed all who came to Him (Matthew 8:16, 12:15; Luke 6:19), rejecting none except where unbelief blocked the flow (Mark 6:5-6). Despite the crowds’ many flaws—sins unconfessed, hearts divided—faith was the key, and healing flowed like manna in the desert.

This isn’t hyperbole; it’s the pattern. Jesus healed relentlessly, embodying the Father’s heart for wholeness. In the gospel of Abraham, now ours through Jesus’ curse-bearing death, miracles aren’t rare treats but daily sustenance. Paul makes it plain in Galatians 3:5: “He who supplies the Spirit to you and works miracles among you—does He do it by works of the law, or by hearing with faith?” Miracles are the norm for faith-filled heirs, as average as breakfast. This means in context of the New Testament Galatians church in Galatians 3, the amount of the Spirit’s power and miracles Paul was referring to, was substantial, and it was based on Abraham’s gospel. This also destroys any attempt to say sign miracles have ceased therefore regular healings and miracles have ceased. Such as stance is blasphemy and deserves immediate curses, and excommunication. The healings and miracles we have been reviewing are about God fulling His old promise to Abraham, not to prove or authenticate something. Those are two different categories, and to be so stupid to confuse the two is a sign of God’s reprobation on you. Logically it is the same as saying, “Dinosaurs are animals. Dinosaurs are ceased. Therefore, animals have ceased.”

To say healing is a cosmic lotto, hit-or-miss even with mountain-moving faith—is to peddle a different gospel. Paul doesn’t mince words: “If anybody is preaching to you a gospel other than what you accepted, let them be under God’s curse!” (Galatians 1:9). Those who dilute the promise, chalking up unanswered prayers to “God’s mysterious will” rather than our need for undiluted faith, deserve the same rejection. They’re not protecting sovereignty; they’re peddling unbelief, complicit in letting Satan sideline saints with sickness.

This isn’t about earning miracles through perfect behavior. Abraham’s blessing is by faith, not merit, just as justification is. Jesus didn’t demand spotless lives from those He healed; He demanded faith in His willingness and power. In our New Covenant, superior to the old (Hebrews 8:6), the Spirit empowers us for even greater works. Sickness isn’t God’s autograph on our lives; it’s the enemy’s graffiti, defacing Jesus’ body, His temple. As co-heirs with Christ (Romans 8:17), we inherit the world—all things are ours (1 Corinthians 3:21-23). That includes health, provision, and victory over every curse. If you’re Abraham’s child by faith (Galatians 3:7), claim your bread daily. Meditate on the promises relentlessly, confess them boldly. Unbelief might whisper “not today,” but faith shouts back with Jesus: “Your faith has healed you—go in peace” (Luke 8:48).

In the end, this gospel of abundant miracles isn’t optional fluff; it’s the power of God for salvation in full (Romans 1:16). Reject the naysayers who shrink it to fit their experience rather than expanding their faith to match God’s Word. Curse that different gospel, as Paul commands, and embrace the one secured by Jesus’ blood—one where healing flows as freely as grace itself. After all, if God gave us His Son, won’t He freely give us all things (Romans 8:32)? That’s not a question; it’s a promise. Grab your loaf and eat up.

The Gospel is God Showing Off, Not Man

The stark contrast between the gospel’s essence and the mindset of the faithless religious crowd couldn’t be clearer, like night refusing to mingle with day. In the Lord’s Supper, we witness God’s extravagant generosity on full display—He pours out righteousness, healing, wealth, and peace without demanding a dime from us, as if to say, “Watch Me lavish My riches on you, because that’s who I am.” Jesus doesn’t hand us a bill for His broken body or spilled blood; instead, He declares, “This is for you,” echoing the one-way flow from Isaiah 53 where He bears our griefs and carries our pains, swapping our curses for His blessings. The faithless, however, flip this divine script upside down, strutting like peacocks in their self-imposed sufferings, boasting about what they “give” to God as if their meager, self-inflicted sufferings, sicknesses and sacrifices could impress the Almighty. They twist communion into a showcase of their piety—enduring sickness as “God’s will” or poverty as proof of devotion—forgetting that such posturing mocks the cross, where God did all the giving so we could freely receive.

This inversion isn’t just a minor theological hiccup; it’s a worldview war, pitting God’s sovereign supply against man’s arrogant striving. Scripture hammers this home in Romans 5, where God demonstrates His love by dying for us while we were still powerless enemies, not waiting for us to scrape together some spiritual currency. The religious types, peddling their “sacrifices” like vendors at a flea market, essentially claim God needs their input to be glorified, as if the Creator of the universe relies on our loneliness or pain to pad His resume. But Ephesians 2 flips that delusion: We’re saved by grace through faith, not works, so no one can boast—God gets all the glory for the rescue operation. The faithless cling to their “contributions,” finding God “useful” only as a platform for their ego trips, while the gospel invites us to revel in His usefulness to us, paying every bill and piling on blessings. It’s like showing up to a royal banquet and insisting on washing dishes to “earn” your seat—what a comical insult to the King’s hospitality.

Dig deeper, and the contrast exposes a rotten core in the religious facade: They honor God with lips but hearts far from Him, as Jesus quotes Isaiah in Matthew 15, substituting human traditions for divine commands. God’s showing off in communion reminds us we’re recipients, not donors—He enriches us with Abraham’s blessings in Galatians 3, not because we tithe our way to favor, but because Christ redeemed us from the curse. The faithless, meanwhile, parade their “giving” as if suffering rejection or upheaval somehow blesses God, ignoring that He endured those for us so we could enjoy acceptance and peace. This fundamental clash boils down to humility versus hubris: Embrace God’s lavish giving, or cling to your “sacrifices” and miss the feast—after all, who turns down infinite upgrades from the ultimate Provider?

When we gather around the Lord’s table, breaking bread and lifting the cup, it’s not a somber ritual of our meager offerings to Him—it’s a vivid reminder of His boundless giving to us. As I’ve emphasized in my systematic theology, the gospel isn’t a transaction where we scrape together scraps to appease a distant deity; it’s God lavishing His riches on undeserving sinners, making us heirs to blessings that stagger the imagination. Picture it: God, the ultimate showman, orchestrating the cross not just to forgive but to flood us with health, wealth, peace, and power—all sealed in Christ’s blood. Communion verses drive this home, flipping the script on the faithless who twist it into a showcase of human sacrifice. With a wink of divine irony, it’s as if God says, “Watch this,” and unleashes a cascade of goodies we could never earn.

Start with the foundational scene in 1 Corinthians 11:23-26 (NLT): “For I pass on to you what I received from the Lord himself. On the night when he was betrayed, the Lord Jesus took some bread and gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and said, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way, he took the cup of wine after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant between God and his people—an agreement confirmed with my blood. Do this in remembrance of me as often as you drink it.’ For every time you eat this bread and drink this cup, you are announcing the Lord’s death until he comes again.” Paul doesn’t frame this as our pious duty to God but as a proclamation of what Christ has done—His body broken and blood spilled as the ultimate act of divine generosity. The focus isn’t on our remembrance as a work we perform; it’s on Christ’s self-giving, activating the new covenant where God pledges to be our God and us His people (Hebrews 8:10). This isn’t mutual back-scratching; it’s God initiating, funding, and fulfilling every promise, from forgiveness to flourishing.

Deductively, if the gospel is rooted in substitutionary atonement—where Christ bears our curses so we inherit His blessings—then communion celebrates this one-way flow from heaven to earth. Isaiah 53:4-5 (NLT) lays it bare: “Yet it was our weaknesses he carried; it was our sorrows that weighed him down… He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed.” Here, the prophet doesn’t depict us clambering up to God with offerings; instead, Christ shoulders our infirmities, exchanging His wholeness for our brokenness. Matthew 8:17 applies this directly to physical healing during Jesus’ ministry, confirming it’s no metaphor—Christ’s stripes secure our health as surely as His blood our pardon. Galatians 3:13-14 extends this to the broader Abrahamic blessing: “But Christ has rescued us from the curse pronounced by the law. When he was hung on the cross, he took upon himself the curse for our wrongdoing… Through Christ Jesus, God has blessed the Gentiles with the same blessing he promised to Abraham, so that we who are believers might receive the promised Holy Spirit through faith.” Paul calls this exchange the gospel preached to Abraham—miracles, the Spirit’s power, and prosperity flowing freely, not earned by our sweat but gifted through Christ’s sacrifice. To partake in communion is to affirm this reality: God shows off by supplying what we lack, turning paupers into princes without a dime from our pockets.

Contrast this with the upside-down worldview of the faithless and religious, who peddle a gospel of human striving. They love to parade their sacrifices—enduring sickness as “God’s will,” scraping by in poverty to prove piety, or boasting in loneliness as spiritual badge. But as John 15:16 (NLT) declares, “You didn’t choose me. I chose you. I appointed you to go and produce lasting fruit, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask for, using my name.” Jesus doesn’t summon us to grovel; He appoints us to ask and receive, echoing the Father’s love mirrored in His own. The religious flip this, imagining God delights in our offerings more than His. It’s like showing up to a feast hosted by a billionaire and insisting on washing dishes to “earn” your seat. 1 John 4:10 (NLT) nails it: “This is real love—not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to take away our sins.” The faithless invert this, making communion a somber tally of their deeds, but Scripture insists it’s God’s showcase: He loved first, gave first, and keeps giving without tally.

Romans 5:6-10 (NLT) amplifies this divine extravagance: “When we were utterly helpless, Christ came at just the right time and died for us sinners. Now, most people would not be willing to die for an upright person, though someone might perhaps be willing to die for a person who is especially good. But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners. And since we have been made right in God’s sight by the blood of Christ, he will certainly save us from God’s condemnation. For since our friendship with God was restored by the death of his Son while we were still his enemies, we will certainly be saved through the life of his Son.” Here, Paul doesn’t spotlight our repentance or works; he spotlights God’s initiative—dying for enemies to make them friends, reconciling while we rebelled. This isn’t quid pro quo; it’s God overwhelming our helplessness with His abundance. In communion, we proclaim this death, not as a dirge for our failings, but as triumph over them—God’s love proven in blood, guaranteeing “how much more” we’ll receive now as reconciled heirs.

Yet, the religious mindset recoils, fearing such grace cheapens holiness. They cling to a theology where suffering showcases their devotion, but 2 Corinthians 8:9 (NLT) dismantles that: “You know the generous grace of our Lord Jesus Christ. Though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you could become rich.” Paul ties this directly to financial generosity, urging the Corinthians to give from abundance secured by Christ’s impoverishment. It’s not our poverty glorifying God; it’s His supply enabling us to be rich, so that in our wealth we can both be blessed and fund His kingdom. Isaiah 53:5 extends this to peace: “The punishment that brought us peace was on him.” Christ absorbed chaos so we inherit shalom—wholeness in body, mind, and circumstances. Begging for peace amid turmoil mocks this exchange; faith claims it as done. The faithless, by contrast, parade endurance as virtue, but that’s human showing off, not God’s. As if God needs our grit to shine—He’s the star, we’re the beneficiaries.

John 15:9-15 (NLT) weaves love, joy, and answered prayer into this tapestry: “I have loved you even as the Father has loved me. Remain in my love… I have told you these things so that you will be filled with my joy. Yes, your joy will overflow! This is my commandment: Love each other in the same way I have loved you. There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command… You didn’t choose me. I chose you. I appointed you to go and produce lasting fruit, so that the Father will give you whatever you ask for, using my name.” Jesus doesn’t demand we earn His love; He pours it out, commanding us to abide in it for overflowing joy. Friendship with God isn’t forged by our sacrifices but His—laying down life for us. The fruit? Answered prayers, not as reward for our efforts but as evidence of His choosing. Communion echoes this: We remember His laying down, not ours, receiving joy and provision as appointed heirs.

In 2 Corinthians 5:14-21 (NLT), Paul underscores reconciliation as God’s initiative: “For the love of Christ controls us… And he died for all, so that we who receive God’s new life will no longer live for ourselves. Instead, we will live for Christ… This means that anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun! And all of this is a gift from God, who brought us back to himself through Christ… For God made Christ, who never sinned, to be the offering for our sin, so that we could be made right with God through Christ.” The new creation isn’t our makeover project; it’s God’s gift, swapping our sin for His righteousness. No room for self-flagellation here—God reconciled the world to Himself, not counting sins against us. Communion proclaims this death, celebrating the swap that makes us whole, not wallowing in what’s already buried.

Leviticus 26:6-12 (NLT) foreshadows this in covenant language: “I will give you peace in the land, and you will be able to sleep with no cause for fear… I will look favorably upon you, making you fertile and multiplying your people. And I will fulfill my covenant with you… I will walk among you; I will be your God, and you will be my people.” God doesn’t promise peace as our achievement; He grants it, fulfilling His covenant through Christ. The faithless invert this, enduring fear as spiritual discipline, but that’s demonic sleight-of-hand. God is showing off peace now.

Hebrews 9-10 ties it to Christ’s once-for-all sacrifice: “Under the old covenant, the priest stands and ministers before the altar day after day, offering the same sacrifices again and again, which can never take away sins. But our High Priest offered himself to God as a single sacrifice for sins, good for all time. Then he sat down in the place of honor at God’s right hand… For by that one offering he forever made perfect those who are being made holy” (Hebrews 10:11-14 NLT). No endless striving—Christ’s offering perfects us, activating the new covenant where God writes laws on hearts and remembers sins no more. Communion isn’t reliving guilt; it’s rejoicing in perfection already secured.

In conclusion, communion verses paint the gospel as God’s grand spectacle of giving—righteousness, healing, wealth, peace—all flowing from Christ’s cross to us. The religious, with their self-showcasing sacrifices, peddle a counterfeit, but Scripture demands we receive boldly, glorifying God by enjoying His bounty. As Romans 5:11 (NLT) sums it: “So now we can rejoice in our wonderful new relationship with God because our Lord Jesus Christ has made us friends of God.” God shows off by friending enemies. Lift the cup, break the bread, and revel in His generosity. After all, who turns down a divine upgrade?

Communion Verses

Below is a common list of verses I go over before communion.

(1 Corinthians 11)
For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said,

“This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.”

In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying,

“This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.”

For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

(John 15)
If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you want and it will be done for you.

“Just as the Father has loved me, I also have loved you. … I have spoken these things to you in order that my joy may be in you, and your joy may be made complete. … No one has greater love than this: that someone lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends…
You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit, and your fruit should remain, in order that whatever you ask the Father in my name he will give you.

(John 4)
In this is love: not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.

And we have come to know and have believed the love that God has in us. God is love, and the one who resides in love resides in God, and God resides in him.

By this love is perfected with us, so that we may have confidence in the day of judgment, because just as that one is, so also are we in this world. There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear..

(Romans 5)
You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Since we have now been justified by his blood, how much more shall we be saved from God’s wrath through him! For if, while we were God’s enemies, we were reconciled to him through the death of his Son, how much more, having been reconciled, shall we be saved through his life!

(1 Corinthians 1)
Therefore does the one who gives you the Spirit and who works miracles among you do so by the works of the law, or by the hearing of faith?

Just as Abraham believed God, and it was credited to him for righteousness, then understand that the ones who have faith[a], these are sons of Abraham. And the scripture, foreseeing that God would justify the Gentiles by faith, proclaimed the good news in advance to Abraham: “In you all the nations will be blessed.” So then, the ones who have faith are blessed together with Abraham who believed…

Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us, because it is written, “Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree,” in order that the blessing of Abraham might come to the Gentiles in Christ Jesus, so that we might receive the promise of the Spirit through faith.

But of Him you are in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God—and righteousness and sanctification and redemption— that, as it is written, “He who glories, let him glory in the Lord.

(Isaiah 53)Surely He has borne our griefs (sicknesses, weaknesses, and distresses) and carried our sorrows and pains [of punishment], yet we [ignorantly] considered Him stricken, smitten, and afflicted by God [as if with leprosy].But He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our guilt and iniquities; the chastisement [needful to obtain] peace and well-being for us was upon Him, and with the stripes [that wounded] Him we are healed and made whole.

For He shall bear [the responsibility for] their sins.

Yet He Himself bore and took away the sin of many,
And interceded [with the Father] for the transgressors.

(Isaiah 54)
If anyone attacks you, it’s none of my doing.
Whoever attacks you will fall because of you.

No weapon fashioned against you will succeed,
and you may condemn every tongue that disputes with you.
This is the inheritance of the Lord’s servants,
whose righteousness comes from me.

(Hebrews 9-10)
For by the power of the eternal Spirit, Christ offered himself to God as a perfect sacrifice for our sins.

The will goes into effect only after the person’s death.

Then he said, “This blood confirms the covenant God has made with you.”

If they could have provided perfect cleansing, the sacrifices would have stopped, for the worshipers would have been purified once for all time, and their feelings of guilt would have disappeared.

(Hebrews 10)
But this is the new covenant I will make

I will put my laws in their minds,
    and I will write them on their hearts.
I will be their God,
    and they will be my people…’
For everyone, will already know me.
And I will forgive their wickedness,
    and I will never again remember their sins.”

But our High Priest offered himself to God as a single sacrifice for sins, good for all time.
Then he sat down in the place of honor at God’s right hand.
There he waits until his enemies are humbled and made a footstool under his feet.
For by that one offering he forever made perfect those who are being made holy.

(2 Corinthians 5)
And he died for all, in order that those who live should no longer live for themselves, but for the one who died for them and was raised.

So then, from now on we know no one from a human point of view, if indeed we have known Christ from a human point of view, but now we know him this way no longer.

Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.

And all these things are from God, who has reconciled us to himself through Christ, …God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, …

He made the one who did not know sin to be sin on our behalf, in order that we could become the righteousness of God in him.

(2 Corinthians 8-9)
For you are recognizing [more clearly] the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ [His astonishing kindness, His generosity, His gracious favor], that though He was rich, yet for your sake He became poor, so that by His poverty you might become rich (abundantly blessed).
And God is able to make all grace [every favor and earthly blessing] come in abundance to you, so that you may always [under all circumstances, regardless of the need] have complete sufficiency in everything [being completely self-sufficient in Him], and have an abundance for every good work and act of charity.

(Levitus 26)
“‘I will grant peace in the land, and you will lie down and no one will make you afraid. I will remove wild beasts from the land, and the sword will not pass through your country. You will pursue your enemies, and they will fall by the sword before you. Five of you will chase a hundred, and a hundred of you will chase ten thousand, and your enemies will fall by the sword before you.

“‘I will look on you with favor and make you fruitful and increase your numbers, and I will keep my covenant with you. You will still be eating last year’s harvest when you will have to move it out to make room for the new. I will put my dwelling place among you, and I will not abhor you. I will walk among you and be your God, and you will be my people. I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt so that you would no longer be slaves to the Egyptians; I broke the bars of your yoke and enabled you to walk with heads held high.

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.

Receiving God’s Love #2

When someone asks what it means to receive God’s love, they’re often looking for a feeling, a warm glow, or some mystical experience that makes everything right. But that’s not how the Bible frames it. God’s love isn’t a fleeting emotion or a pat on the back for good behavior; it’s a sovereign reality, rooted in His unchanging nature and revealed through His Word. Receiving it starts with faith—assenting to what God has already done and said about you in Christ. It’s not about chasing a high; it’s about agreeing with God that His promises are your reality, even when life throws curveballs. And let’s be honest, if God’s love was just a sentiment, it would be as reliable as your morning coffee mood—up one day, crash the next. No, it’s power, it’s provision, it’s the force that crushes sickness and lack underfoot.

Let’s start with the basics, because if we don’t ground this in Scripture, we’re just spinning human speculation, and that’s Satan’s playground. The Bible declares that God’s love predates everything—it’s eternal, sovereign, and initiating. 1 John 4:19 puts it plainly: “We love because he first loved us.” Before you could muster a thought about God, He loved you. This isn’t some vague universal affection; it’s targeted, predestined for His elect. In Ephesians 1:4-5, Paul explains that God chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world, predestining us in love to be adopted as sons. Think about that—God’s love isn’t reactive to your performance; it’s proactive, decreed from eternity. He didn’t wait to see if you’d measure up; He sovereignly decided to pour out favor on you through Jesus. That’s not mystery or paradox; that’s the laws of identity and contradiction straight from God’s mind. If He swore by Himself to bless Abraham’s seed—and we’re that seed by predestination and expressed by our faith (Galatians 3:29)—then receiving His love means claiming that inheritance now, not in some distant heaven.

But what does this love look like in action? It’s not abstract; it’s substantial, tied to Christ’s atonement. Romans 5:8 nails it: “But God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” God’s love isn’t just words; it’s wrath-absorbing, curse-crushing substitution. Jesus bore our sins, but Isaiah 53:4-5 expands it: “Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows… and with his wounds we are healed.” Matthew 8:16-17 applies this directly to physical healing, quoting Isaiah to show Jesus took our infirmities. Peter echoes in 1 Peter 2:24: “By his wounds you have been healed.” Notice the past tense—it’s done. Receiving God’s love means assenting to this finished work: your sins forgiven, your body healed, your needs met. It’s not begging for scraps; it’s bold access to the throne (Hebrews 4:16), where you ask and receive because God’s love demands it. If He loved us enough to send His Son to the cross, how much more does He love giving good things to those who ask (Matthew 7:11)?

When Grief hits like a freight train, we go to His promises: “I will never leave you nor forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5). I confessed His love over the pain—”Father, You turn mourning to dancing” (Psalm 30:11)—and God lifted me out of the pit. The devil whispers abandonment, but God’s Word shouts sonship. Receiving His love meant rejecting feelings for divine revelation: I’m righteous in Christ, healed by His stripes, prosperous through Abraham’s blessing. No valley of sorrow is too deep for mountain-moving faith (Mark 11:23). And yeah, if that sounds too triumphant for some, remember: God’s love isn’t a consolation prize; it’s conquest over the curse.

God’s love is sovereign, not sentimental. He doesn’t send sickness to “teach lessons”—that’s Satan’s gig (Acts 10:38). God relates to us in blessings under the New Covenant, where Jesus ministers life, not death. Receiving love means proximity to this God—drawing near by faith, where His Spirit empowers (Acts 1:8). Jude 1:20-21 ties it to building faith and praying in the Spirit to stay in God’s love. No tongues? No miracles? Then question if you’re truly receiving His love or just a feel-good counterfeit. The Bible’s ethic: Ask in faith, get it, whether forgiveness or healing (John 16:24). No maybe—necessity flows from God’s nature of love. He’s the law of non-contradiction; His yes is yes.

So how do we receive this love? Faith confession—speak God’s Word over your life. “Father, You first loved me; I receive Your righteousness, healing, prosperity.” Reject unbelief like the plague: “No sickness from Satan sticks to me—I’m blessed!” It’s not arrogance; it’s agreement with God. Strong confessions like that, is agreeing that God does love you, and so you speak it out loud, just as you speak out loud your love to your spouse, family or friends. Don’t coddle doubt; crush it with truth and confession it with your lips. If grief grips, confess: “Weeping endures for a night, but joy comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Faith shortens troubles, and in doing so eradicating patience’s need.

1 John 4:10, which declares, “This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.” Here’s the punchline: we didn’t love; God love us. We were rebels, dead in sin, incapable of loving Him—our hearts were stone, not valentines. Yet He moved, sending Jesus as the propitiation, turning wrath into favor. Receiving this love isn’t about us giving back; it’s about us taking what He’s already given. We’re the needy ones, not God. He doesn’t need our offerings—He owns the cattle on a thousand hills (Psalm 50:10). Instead, He favors us by giving: righteousness, healing, peace. It’s a one-way street of grace. Assent to this truth—confess, “I receive Your favor, Father”—and watch faith unlock the storehouse.

This flips human logic upside down, and that’s the beauty of it. Love, biblically, is favor shown, not earned. We can’t give God anything He lacks; our “love” to Him is just echoing His gift back, like a kid handing Dad a crayon drawing made with his own crayons. But God’s love is original, creative, sovereign. He favors us by giving His Son, and through Him, every blessing. In my room, waiting for Dad’s discipline, I was still in his house—safe, loved. So it is with God: even in correction, His love pours out, not takes away. It is Satan who takes away, steals and kills you. Receive it by faith—declare, “I’m favored, not forsaken”—and you align with His definition of reality. It’s not pride; it’s obedience to the God who loved us first, and keeps on giving.

In conclusion, receiving God’s love isn’t passive—it’s faith-fueled warfare against unbelief, claiming what’s yours in Christ. God’s love is power: initiating, sovereign, triumphant. It crushes curses, heals hurts, prospers paths. Don’t settle for feelings; grab revelation. Jesus marveled at faith, not patience. God’s love isn’t a mere hug in the dark—it’s the dawn blasting shadows to bits.

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 Made the Gospel First

Let’s dive straight into Genesis, because that’s where God lays out His blueprint for how He operates with us. On the day Adam was created, God had already created the whole world, and then crafted the Garden of Eden—rich, overflowing with gold in Havilah, fruitful trees dangling low-hanging delights, rivers teeming with life, and a landscape screaming abundance. Genesis 2:11-12 doesn’t mince words: gold, bdellium, onyx stones—all there, ready and waiting. God didn’t plop Adam down in a barren wasteland and say, “Earn your keep, buddy.” No, He prepared the whole prosperous paradise first, then created Adam and handed him the keys. Dominion? Check. Wealth management? Absolutely. Adam’s job wasn’t to scrape together provision; it was to steward the riches God had already supplied.

Imagine Adam strolling through, a mango smacking him square in the face, and him turning to Eve with a puzzled look: “Honey, do you think it’s God’s will for me to eat this? Or did God create me so that He could pimp-slap my face with sugary fruit, and then deny it to my stomach?” We’d laugh at such nonsense—it’s sub-animal-level stupid, the kind of delusion that makes you wonder if the guy’s got all his marbles. But that’s exactly how too many Christians approach the gospel today, tiptoeing around blessings like they’re booby-trapped and unsure if they belong to them.

This isn’t some cute analogy; it’s God’s unchanging pattern. He creates the good stuff first—unmerited, lavish, complete—and then gifts it to His people. God’s unmerited favor supplies man; man does not supply God. Adam didn’t sweat for Eden; Eden was ready-made, a divine trust fund dropped in his lap. Fast-forward to Abraham, and you see the same rhythm. Genesis 12:2-3: God promises to bless him, make him great, enlarge his territory—before Abraham lifts a finger beyond faith. And boy, did it pour out: livestock, silver, gold, victories over kings (Genesis 13:2, 14:16). Abraham’s blessing wasn’t piecemeal; it was a pre-packaged explosion of prosperity, miracles, and favor, all because God sovereignly decided to give it by unmerited favor. Paul hammers this in Galatians 3:8-9, calling it the gospel announced in advance: righteousness by faith, and with it, the full blessing kit—including wealth, health, and supernatural power. God didn’t wait for Abraham to prove himself; He prepared the covenant riches first, then called him into it.

Now, zoom in on the gospel itself—the ultimate fulfillment. Ephesians 1:3 blasts it: “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ.” Notice the past tense: “has blessed.” It’s already done, prepped before you were a twinkle in your parents’ eyes. God didn’t scramble to whip up salvation after Adam blew it; no, Revelation 13:8 calls Jesus the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world. The atonement? Finished in God’s mind before creation. The New Covenant? Sealed in blood, with all its perks—forgiveness, righteousness, healing, prosperity, the baptism of power—locked and loaded before you repented. Jesus didn’t die hoping you’d accept; He died knowing the elect would, because God predestined it (Ephesians 1:4-5). The gospel isn’t a reaction; it’s God’s proactive masterpiece, crafted in eternity and unveiled in time. Like Eden, the whole package is ready: low-hanging fruits of healing (Isaiah 53:5), prosperity (2 Corinthians 8:9), and mountain-moving authority (Mark 11:23). They’re slapping believers in the face as we walk by, yet so many stand there debating: “Is it God’s will for me to be healed today? Or does He want me to suffer for character?” Come on—that’s not humility; that’s unbelief dressed in pious rags.

Think about the horror-movie twist some theologians peddle: God dangles milk and honey, then yanks it away with “Not today, kid—builds resilience.” That’s Satan’s playbook, not God’s. I recall a commercial where a guy feasts on cookies, only to find every milk carton empty, realizing he’s in hell. God isn’t a demon toying with us. Jesus’ priesthood seats us in heavenly places (Ephesians 2:6), showering “all spiritual blessings”—which spill over into material reality because spiritual power is the parent cause for all motions in the material world. Abraham’s blessing? Yours now, including wealth and health (Galatians 3:14). Jesus’ atonement? It swapped your poverty for His riches, your sickness for health—not metaphorically, but really (Matthew 8:17). In God’s sovereign thoughts, it’s already transferred. God’s Word is His will. No guesswork—He said it, so agree with Him. Confess it.

Reprobates and faith-fumblers love complicating this. They focus on men—Adam’s fall, Abraham’s tests, your failures—and ignore God’s preemptive grace. They do this because reprobates focus on men; Christians focus on God. They say, “Prosperity? That’s greedy, but God has called us to suffer nobly.” However, that’s glorifying the curse, siding with the thief who steals and destroys (John 10:10). Jesus came for abundant life—now, not just pie-in-the-sky. In the Garden, provision was effortless; in Christ, it’s the same. Faith isn’t earning; it’s receiving what’s already given. James 1:17: Every good gift comes from the Father, unchanging. He prepared the gospel’s riches—forgiveness to wipe your slate, righteousness to make you bold, healing to crush Satan’s works, prosperity to fund kingdom expansion—then sovereignly called you into it. God didn’t leave it to chance; He predestined your reception.

What does low-hanging fruit look like? Jesus says, “Your faith has healed you” (Mark 5:34). In the gospel, as in the Garden, prosperity is slapping your face. That is, if Adam was walking in the Garden stuffed with trees filled with fruit, they would be brushing up against him as he walked. The same is with the gospel already being finished and God placing us in it. If you walk around in the gospel, the fruit will be brushing up against you. The only way it won’t is if you are filled with unbelief and doubts. If you are walking by faith in the gospel, then take what God has already given you. Don’t let God’s blessings smack you in the face and keep walking by, disrespecting God’s goodness as if it was of little value.

Confess Deuteronomy 8:18: God gives power to create wealth. Miracles? Ask and receive. You even have the option to command miracles. Jesus has already made you a royal priesthood, who is privileged to use His name and ask for anything you want. This is already your reality. You are already the righteousness of God in Christ (2 Corinthians 5:21), co-heir with Jesus (Romans 8:17). Therefore, walk boldly and approach the throne (Hebrews 4:16); ask and receive. If doubt creeps in, resist it like the devil it is—fleeing required (James 4:7).

In my own trek, losing my twin Joshua could’ve derailed me into poverty theology. But no—God’s prepped gospel held: healing for grief, provision amid loss. I poured faith into pages, birthing my Systematic Theology, because blessings don’t wait for perfect circumstances; rather, they are already given and my possession by grace. Don’t join the faithless jerks, tossing God’s goodness into the trash. Agree with God by confessing: “The gospel is already mine; Jesus has already given His righteousness recorded to my account by grace. I already have the blessing of Abraham. I already am a royal priesthood. I’m already sitting in the heavenly places with Jesus above all names and times. I already have the same power that raised Jesus from the dead working and flowing in and out of me. I already have the rivers of living waters flowing out of me. I already have the Name of Jesus engraved on my tongue.”

Pluck those fruits; they’re slapping you in the face for a reason. I will give you a hint. God put them face level, not for you to ram your face into them, but to make it easy for you to pluck them and ram them down your throat.

Your Blessed: Even If You’re in the Wrong

September 28, 2025

Let’s dive straight into the heart of God’s unshakeable covenant with His people, a truth that shines through the stories of Abraham and Isaac like a divine spotlight cutting through the fog of human failure. In Genesis 12:10-20, Abraham, driven by famine, heads to Egypt and pulls a fast one: he tells Pharaoh that Sarah is his sister, not his wife, fearing for his life. Technically, she’s a half-sister, but the omission is a lie by any honest measure. Yet, when Pharaoh takes Sarah into his palace, God doesn’t thunder down on Abraham with a rebuke. Instead, He plagues Pharaoh’s household, forcing the king to confront the deception and send Abraham away loaded with wealth—silver, gold, livestock. Abraham is in the wrong and God slaps Pharaoh instead. Think about that. Abraham walks out richer, unscathed, while the pagan ruler gets the divine smackdown. Fast-forward to Genesis 26:6-11, and Isaac pulls the same stunt with Rebekah in Gerar, claiming she’s his sister to King Abimelech. Again, no heavenly finger-wagging at Isaac. Isaac not only escapes harm but reaps a hundredfold harvest in a drought-stricken land (v. 12), blessing upon blessing despite his fear-driven fib.

This isn’t sloppy storytelling in Scripture; it’s a deliberate showcase of God’s covenant loyalty, a Contract so ironclad that it overrides human sins and turns them into triumphs. God’s unmerited favor supplies man; man does not supply God. Abraham and Isaac weren’t earning brownie points here—they were fumbling in fear, yet God’s promise to Abraham in Genesis 12:2-3 (“I will bless you… and you will be a blessing”) kicks in like an unstoppable force. The Almighty rebukes kings, plagues palaces, and pours out prosperity, all while His chosen ones learn on the job. It’s almost comical, in a sobering way: picture Pharaoh scratching his head over sudden household chaos, or Abimelech sweating through a nightmare, while the real culprits—Abraham and Isaac—stroll away with upgrades. God isn’t winking at sin; He’s demonstrating that His Contract isn’t fragile like human deals. It’s sovereign, absolute, and directly orchestrated to showcase His glory through imperfect vessels.

Now, zoom out to the bigger picture: this covenant power isn’t ancient history; it’s amplified in the New Contract through Jesus Christ. Galatians 3:29 declares, “If you belong to Christ, then you are Abraham’s seed, and heirs according to the promise.” That promise? The blessing of Abraham, including supernatural favor that makes kings back off and resources multiply, even when we’ve messed up. Jesus became the curse for us (Galatians 3:13), swapping our failures for His righteousness, so that God’s contract with us—sealed in blood—guarantees ongoing goodness. Hebrews 8:10-12 spells it out: God writes His laws on our hearts, calls us His people, and remembers our sins no more. This isn’t license to abuse grace, as Paul warns in Romans 6:1-2—we don’t sin so grace abounds. But it is a reminder that God’s favor isn’t performance-based; it’s promise-based. When we stumble, He doesn’t abandon ship; He rebukes the “kings” in our lives—be they bosses, circumstances, or even demonic forces—and redirects the fallout to our benefit. Think of it: your mistake at work leads to a promotion because God stirs favor; a health scare turns into miraculous recovery because the Contract (not your performance) demands healing. Reprobates scoff at this, calling it “health and wealth heresy,” because they would rather trample Jesus blood and believe in Him.

Yet, here’s where faith enters the fray, and it’s not optional—it’s the ignition switch. Abraham and Isaac’s stories show God’s initiative, but our response matters. In both cases, their partial truths stemmed from fear, not faith, yet God honored the underlying covenant. For us, post-cross, we’re called to higher: Our faith needs to catch up to who we already are in Christ. Ephesians 2:6 seats us with Christ in heavenly realms, far above earthly kings and blunders. But if we wallow in guilt or unbelief after a slip-up, we limit God, confessing our mess instead of His mercy. Jesus modeled this perfectly: even when Peter denied Him, Christ didn’t rebuke with threats but restored him (John 21:15-19), focusing on future fruit. We’re not to abuse grace by plotting deceptions, but when we falter by the weakness of the flesh, God’s contract kicks in. He promises in Romans 8:28 to work all things for good, rebuking obstacles and supplying needs.

This truth dismantles defective ethics that peddle guilt as godliness. Faith-fumblers, preach a gospel where God’s always mad, ready to zap you for every misstep. Nonsense. The same love the Father has for Jesus, He gives to His elect. If God rebuked kings for Abraham’s sake, how much more for us, united with the resurrected Christ? We’re His children, not probationary hires. He promises in Psalm 105:14-15, “He allowed no one to oppress them; for their sake he rebuked kings: ‘Do not touch my anointed ones; do my prophets no harm.'” That’s Contract protection, extending to us as Abraham’s heirs.

Let these stories fuel bold confession: “God, even in my stumbling, Your Contract stands; rebuke the ‘kings’ in my path and pour out Your goodness.” Faith catches up by meditating on promises day and night (Psalm 1:2-3), assenting to God’s definitions over our feelings. You’re not defined by mistakes; you’re defined by the Contract—accomplished, effective, eternal. And if He rebuked pharaohs for patriarchs, imagine what He’ll do for you. It’s not arrogance; it’s agreement with Scripture.

Satan’s Sticky Fingers: Robbed of Speech

Sept / 16 / 2025

“A spirit has robbed him of speech.”

Picture this: a desperate father, elbowing through a crowd in ancient Galilee, clutching the frayed edges of his hope like a man who’s just realized his wallet’s gone missing in a divine pickpocket scheme. “Teacher,” he blurts out in Mark 9:17, “I brought you my son, who is possessed by a spirit that has *robbed* him of speech.” Robbed. Not gently borrowed, not misplaced in some cosmic filing error—robbed. As if Satan himself is out there running a black-market operation on human dignity, snatching voices, health, and futures with the glee of a thief who knows the cops are on coffee break. And Jesus? He’s not there to commiserate over the loss. No, He’s the divine restitution agent, the one who turns the tables and declares, in essence, “That’s not how this story ends.” Because while Satan steals, kills, and destroys, Jesus—that is, God in the flesh—shows up to give life, and life to the full (John 10:10). It’s a total takedown, a comprehensive comeback, where the enemy’s heists meet their match in the King’s vault of abundance.

Let’s not rush past that word, though: “robbed”. The NIV nails it here, capturing the raw theft at play. This isn’t some vague affliction drifting in from the ether; it’s a deliberate grab, a demonic mugging. The father isn’t whining about a genetic glitch or the general brokenness of a fallen world—he’s pointing the finger straight at the spirit doing the dirty work. And Jesus doesn’t correct him with a theological footnote about Adam’s ancient fumble in the garden. No, He rolls up His sleeves, rebukes the foul spirit, and sends it packing, leaving the boy whole. It’s a scene that echoes through the Gospels like a divine audit: Satan as the ultimate con artist, pilfering what God intended for flourishing. But here’s the frank truth, straight from the self-authenticating pages of Scripture—our epistemology’s unyielding foundation: This robbery isn’t God’s idea. It’s not His script. God doesn’t script poverty of body or spirit; He authors prosperity, health, and unhindered communion. To think otherwise is to buy into the devil’s counterfeit theology, where lack masquerades as piety and suffering as sanctity. What a con. What a waste.

Dig a little deeper into Jesus’ ministry, and you see this contrast isn’t a one-off plot twist—it’s the central narrative arc. From the synagogue in Capernaum to the dusty roads of Judea, Jesus doesn’t just forgive sins in some ethereal corner of the soul; He pairs it with healing the body, restoring the broken, and multiplying the loaves like He’s got a divine expense account with no limits. Remember the paralytic lowered through the roof in Mark 2? “Son, your sins are forgiven,” Jesus declares. The scribes mutter about blasphemy, so He follows up: “Which is easier: to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Get up, take your mat and walk’?” Then—bam—the man walks. Forgiveness and function, absolution and ability, bundled together like a covenant combo meal. It’s total salvation on display, where spiritual restoration isn’t isolated from material wholeness. Satan robs on both fronts: voices silenced in shame, bodies bent in pain, wallets emptied in want. But Jesus? His life-giving ministry hits back harder, broader, deeper. He doesn’t offer a half-measure grace that patches the soul while leaving the flesh to fester. No, He restores the whole package, because anything less would dishonor the God who, from Genesis onward, pronounced creation “very good”—abundant, integrated, thriving.

And let’s not kid ourselves: This robbery extends to the material realm, too. The same spirit that mutes a boy’s speech whispers lies about scarcity, convincing folks that God’s too stingy for silver or too sovereign to care about supper. But Scripture shreds that nonsense. Satan steals health *and* wealth, binding people in cycles of lack that mock the Creator’s generosity. Look at the widow’s oil in 2 Kings 4—multiplied by God’s word through Elisha—or Abraham’s flocks swelling under heaven’s favor. These aren’t anomalies; they’re previews of the blessing that flows from faith. Jesus embodies it fully: feeding five thousand from a boy’s lunch, turning water to wine without a single budget meeting. His high priesthood isn’t one of half-rations and holy poverty; it’s the ministry of righteousness, healing, and prosperity (as Peter sums it up in Acts 10:38). To claim Jesus as your priest while nursing a theology of deprivation is like hiring a chef who specializes in feasts and then settling for stale bread. It’s not devotion; it’s delusion. God’s unmerited favor supplies man—man doesn’t supply God. Satan peddles the lie that lack builds character; Jesus proves abundance glorifies the Father.

Now, pivot to that sevenfold restoration—the Bible’s bold promise of over-the-top payback. Joel 2:25 thunders it: “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten—the great locust and the young locust, the other locusts and the locust swarm—my great army that I sent among you.” Not just a refund, mind you, but a surplus, a divine interest rate that turns theft into treasure. Zechariah 9:12 echoes the vibe: “Return to your fortress, you prisoners of hope; even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you.” Twice? Try seven, as the pattern holds from Job’s double-down restoration to the prodigal’s fatted calf welcome. This isn’t cosmic compensation for pity’s sake; it’s God’s sovereign logic at work, where what the enemy meant for ruin becomes rocket fuel for glory. Satan robs your speech? God restores your voice—with volume, clarity, and a testimony that echoes through eternity. He robs your health? Expect not just mending, but vitality that turns heads and topples strongholds. Wealth pilfered? Watch as storehouses overflow, not from sweat alone, but from the blessing of Abraham crashing through the gates of grace.

But here’s where the rubber meets the road, and the wit turns a shade sharper: If the curse of Adam looms in the background—and it does, that primal fracture rippling through creation—Jesus didn’t leave it hanging like a bad sequel. Galatians 3:13 lays it bare: “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us, for it is written: ‘Cursed is everyone who is hung on a pole.'” Substitutionary atonement in action: Jesus absorbs the thorns, the sweat, the silence of the tomb, so you get the garden’s bounty. The father in Mark 9 doesn’t blame Adam’s echo; he names the demon. Jesus doesn’t theologize about original sin; He evicts the intruder. The bent-over woman in Luke 13? “Ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan has kept bound for eighteen long years, be set free on the Sabbath day?” Satan, not some vague curse, gets the credit for the crook in her spine. Sure, the Fall set the stage for such invasions, but Jesus spotlights the squatter, the thief in the night. And why? Because pinpointing the robber empowers the resistance. If it’s just “the curse,” you shrug in fatalism (aka the Christian word for “if it is God’s will”). But if it’s Satan—and Scripture screams it is—then you’ve got a command: Resist the devil, and he will flee (James 4:7). Cast out spirits, heal the sick, reclaim the stolen. Faith isn’t passive therapy; it’s aggressive restitution.

Frankly, if you’re sitting on robbed health or pilfered prosperity, nursing it like a badge of spiritual maturity, you’re not just missing the plot—you’re aiding and abetting the heist. You’re a willing accomplice, handing Satan the getaway car keys while Jesus stands ready with the restitution check. Maxim 16 cuts like a surgeon’s scalpel: Reprobates who resist faith on demand for healing and blessings have sided with demons to trample the blood of Christ. Ouch? Good. Truth should sting when it exposes the lie. God isn’t the miser doling out affliction for your “growth”; He’s the Father who, through the Son, has already swapped curse for blessing, poverty for plenty. Abraham’s seed? That’s you, insider to the Contract, heir to the abundance; inheritor of Jesus who is the resurrection of life “now,” not just pie-in-the-sky later. To accept the robbery without a fight is to declare Jesus’ cross as ineffective, His resurrection a footnote. But no—His life is abundant, total, sevenfold-plus. Satan steals your speech? Jesus restores your shout of praise. He binds your back? You walk tall in dominion. He empties your coffers? You sow in faith and reap barns that burst.

Don’t let the thief define your story. Scripture interprets itself, originalist to the core, and it screams restoration over ruin. Start with the self-authenticating Word: Your faith saved you—from sin, from sickness, from scarcity. Confess it daily, relentlessly: “Satan, you robbed what was mine, but Jesus redeemed it sevenfold. I take it back now, in His name.” Command the mute spirit out, the bent frame straight, the empty hands full. Reality obeys faith, because the resurrected King backs your play. It’s not arrogance; it’s agreement with God, whose love to you, makes you worth the overpayment. And when the loot rolls in—health humming, wealth working, voice vibrating with victory—remember: This glorifies Him, who is the power, the love and the giver; not you. It’s the Father’s joy to lavish on sons who believe.

In this fallen farce of a world, where Satan still pickpockets the unwitting, be the one who turns the tables. Robbed of speech? Speak life. Robbed of strength? Stride bold. Robbed of substance? Scatter seed and watch the harvest mock the thief. Jesus didn’t come to commiserate; He came to compensate, to conquer, to crown the believer with triumph. By faith, you’ll save yourself from Satan’s steal. And in doing so, God boasts of you before the heavens, as the hero He always scripted you to be. No more victims in the kingdom. Only victors, voices restored, vaults replenished. That’s the gospel’s punchline—and it’s hilariously, eternally good.

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.

Oshea Davis

Systematic Theology. Logic. Faith. Healing. Power.