Tag Archives: Jesus

Anti-Logic Baked in Historical Analogy

September 28, 2025

The quote in question, drawn from discussions around F.H. Bradley’s 1874 pamphlet “The Presuppositions of Critical History,” attempts to sidestep the pitfalls of naturalism by leaning on what it calls the “principle of analogy.” It states: “Nor is naturalism the issue when the historian employs the principle of analogy. Bradley showed in the presuppositions of critical history, no historical inference is possible unless the historian assumes a basic analogy of past experience with present experience. If we do not grant this, nothing will seem amiss in believing stories that a man turned into a werewolf or b, changed lead into gold.” On the surface, this sounds reasonable enough—like a scholarly way to filter out fairy tales from facts. Bradley, as a British Idealist, argued that history isn’t directly accessible to the senses, making it inherently subjective, and thus historians must presuppose some continuity between past events and our current experiences to make any inferences at all. Without this analogy, he warned, we’d be stuck accepting absurdities, from shape-shifting beasts to alchemical wonders.

His statement presupposes that he thinks sensations—that is, empiricism—make knowledge reliable, which is incorrect. The Bible rejects empiricism, but logic also shows that sensations to prove sensation is circular; also, what you sense is not the thing itself and so the conclusions of sensation violate the laws of identity and contradiction.

While the quote brushes aside naturalism—a worldview that reduces everything to material causes—as the core problem, it misses the deeper rot: the anti-logic baked right into empiricism itself, which analogy relies upon. Empiricism, that darling of historians who fancy themselves scientific, starts with sensations and observations as the foundation for knowledge. This approach directly violates the law of identity and indirectly (or sometimes directly) tramples the law of contradiction. Analogy, far from being a savior, is just induction in disguise—a guesswork method that adds information not present in the premises, leading to conclusions that don’t logically follow. And when your method systematically produces non-sequiturs, you’re not building knowledge; you’re shacking up with skepticism, which in the end denies the very laws of logic it pretends to uphold. If we’re serious about truth, we need a better starting point—one that’s self-authenticating and deductive, rooted in God’s revelation through Scripture.

To unpack this, consider first how empiricism sabotages the laws of logic from the outset. The law of identity states that a thing is what it is—A is A, without equivocation. Sensations, however, are fleeting impressions: the warmth of the sun on your skin, the sight of a crumbling artifact, or the scent of aged parchment. These are not true or false, invisible premises in the incorporeal mind; they carry no invisible subjects or predicates or logical structure. To leap from a sensation to a premise about reality—like “this ancient coin proves a Roman emperor existed”—requires you to fuck the law of identity by transforming the category of a material sensation into the category of invisible subjects and predicates. In addition to this direct violation of logic, observation incurs more violations: the sensation itself isn’t identical to the proposition you’re deriving from it. You’re smuggling in assumptions about uniformity, causality, and reliability that the raw data doesn’t provide. It’s like claiming a shadow is the same as the object casting it. And so, observational conclusions violate the laws of identity and contradiction.

Analogy’s Anti-logic

Analogy is an inductive argument, which is invalid. That is, X, R, T, and F all have characteristics 1, 2, and 3. Also, X, R, and T have characteristic 4. Thus, F has characteristic 4 as well.

The problem with an invalid argument from analogy is that the conclusion has more information than the premises provide. It is a non-sequitur. Or to bring it back to the basic laws of logic, it violates the law of contradiction. The premises do not state that F has characteristic 4, but the conclusion does. The premises do not have the knowledge that F has characteristic 4, but the conclusion claims that it does have the knowledge. This is a contradiction. To say you don’t have the knowledge and do have the knowledge violates this basic law of logic. This is why analogy arguments are anti-logic. In normal speech, we call this lying, or making up sh#t.

Worse still, empiricism slaps the law of contradiction, which insists that a thing cannot be both A and non-A at the same time in the same sense. When historians build on empirical observations, they inevitably turn to induction to generalize from particulars: “I’ve seen gravity work a thousand times, so it’ll work tomorrow.” But induction’s conclusions always contain more information than the premises allow—a non-necessary leap that could be false even if the premises are true. This isn’t logic; it’s anti-logic, a non-sequitur fallacy dressed up as method. In Bradley’s case, the principle of analogy assumes that past events mirror our present experiences in some uniform way. Why? Because without it, as he notes, we’d have no grounds to dismiss werewolf tales or lead-to-gold transmutations. My first response is, so what? But as shown above, analogy is inductive: it compares isolated instances (past reports vs. current norms) and infers a connection without necessity. The conclusion—”this ancient miracle claim is improbable because it doesn’t align with my experience”—adds more information than the premises provide and so it violates the law of identity; it adds non-necessary bridges that force the violation of logic. In addition to these direct violations of identity and contradiction, it also violates contradiction by implying that the past could be both analogous and non-analogous, depending on the historian’s whims. One day it’s “natural” laws ruling out miracles; the next, some anomaly gets a pass because it fits a narrative. Contradiction creeps in because anti-logic, non-necessary leaps allow the user to pick the conclusion they want.

Bradley’s own work, influenced by German theologians like Baur and Strauss, reflects this tension. He argued that historical testimony must be judged against our current worldview, presupposing a unity in history that allows for critical evaluation. Yet, this unity isn’t deduced from a necessary first principle; it’s assumed empirically, based on non-necessary observed patterns. As snippets from his text reveal, he posits that inference relies on universals, not mere particulars, but then grounds those universals in subjective experience rather than absolute truth. The result? A philosophy of history that’s inevitably skeptical. In addition to this, if all historical claims are filtered through personal analogy, who’s to say your analogy trumps mine? One historian sees continuity in natural laws; another spots divine interventions. This is an interesting stupid outcome, but it is not our argument. Our argument is that history, because it is based on the trinity fallacy of empiricism, analogy, and observation, violates the laws of logic, and this leads to skepticism. Without a self-authenticating standard, knowledge dissolves into doubt. Skepticism claims we can’t know for sure, but to assert “I know that I don’t know” is a contradiction—affirming knowledge while denying it. It’s the ultimate self-refutation, like a man yelling, “I can’t speak!” Bradley’s analogy, meant to rescue history from absurdity, instead plunges it into this abyss, where conclusions float free from premises, untethered by logic.

Now, if this empirical house of cards crumbles under logic’s weight, what’s the alternative? We turn to a deductive epistemology anchored in God’s revelation, as Scripture demands. In my Systematic Theology: 2025, I outline this in the sections on Epistemology and Defective Starting Points. The Bible isn’t just another historical document to be analogized; it’s the self-authenticating first principle, divinely dictated and infallible. God, being Spirit, Intellectual, and Unstoppable, reveals truth: We can apply premises from His Word that lead to necessary conclusions, which reflect His thinking. Deduction applies contradiction, identity, and excluded middle without adding non-necessary category leaps—if the premises are true, the conclusion must be. History, then, isn’t reconstructed via shaky analogies but deduced the bible.

Take the resurrection of Jesus, an event Bradley’s analogy would likely dismiss as non-analogous to “present experience.” Empiricists scoff: “Dead men don’t rise; it violates natural laws.” But Scripture starts with God’s sovereignty: “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth” (Genesis 1:1), establishing His direct causality over all events. From this, we deduce that miracles aren’t anomalies but normal workings of His choices, as in Acts 10:38 where Peter attributes healings to God overpowering Satan’s oppressions. We do the same; no induction needed; it’s a necessary inference from divine revelation. Skeptics might cry foul, but their doubt stems from a defective starting point—human sensations over divine revelation. As I argue in “The Fucking Nonsense of Empiricism,” observation-based knowledge is superstition, a logical void between premise and conclusion. Bradley’s analogy principle, by ignoring this, still condemns history to the same anti-logic fate.

Let’s add a dash of frankness here—it’s almost comical how intellectuals like Bradley twist themselves into knots to avoid the obvious. They claim analogy saves us from gullibility, yet it opens the door to whatever bias the historian packs in his lunchbox. One era’s “natural” is another’s myth; today’s science fiction becomes tomorrow’s fact. Without Scripture’s anchor, you’re not critiquing history—you’re fabricating it. And skepticism? It’s the coward’s creed, pretending humility; it denies the law of contradiction while using it. But God doesn’t play those games. His Word commands faith, not doubt: “All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness” (2 Timothy 3:16). From this premise, we deduce a coherent history: creation, fall, redemption, eschatology—without contradiction.

In the end, ignoring empiricism’s anti-logic to champion analogy is like polishing a sinking ship. It admits the method’s flaws but presses on anyway. Any knowledge of history can only be revealed or deduced by God’s word. Anything less is human speculation. God’s Word is the only self-authenticating first principle. Cling to that, and history becomes not a puzzle of analogies, but a testament to divine sovereignty.

God Wrote Himself Into the Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Faith Eradicates Patience By Eradicating Troubles

George Swinnock’s quote: “To lengthen my patience is the best way to shorten my troubles.”

It’s got that Puritan ring to it—stoic, enduring, almost masochistic in its embrace of suffering. On the surface, it sounds pious, like something you’d stitch on a sampler and hang in a Reformed study.

The Scripture’s focus on everyday troubles (not gospel persecution, mind you) isn’t to stretch your patience like taffy until the storm passes—it’s to obliterate the trouble altogether through faith, rendering patience obsolete where applicable. Patience for patience’s sake? That’s not virtue; that’s veiled unbelief, a defective ethic masquerading as holiness.

You might need patience if your faith is weak, and you need time to renew your mind to the point where you are regularly getting the miracles you are asking for. Sometimes the miracle happens the moment you ask, but like the tree Jesus cursed, it might take a little time before you see the full results. Sometimes you need to keep knocking, and thus some patience is needed.

First, let’s ground this in epistemology and metaphysics, because if we’re not starting from God’s revelation as our sole and only first principle, we’re just peddling human speculation. The Bible doesn’t begin with ethics (what we “ought” to do in trials); it starts with God’s sovereignty over reality (Genesis 1:1, Psalm 24:1-2). God owns the earth, the seas, the troubles—and He decrees how we interact with them. God’s absolute control isn’t fatalism; it’s determinism by an intelligent, promise-keeping Mind. He predestines us not just for bare rescue but for fruit-bearing, miracle-receiving life (John 15:16). Predestination includes getting whatever we ask in faith, and baptism of power. So, when troubles hit—sickness, lack, oppression—the question isn’t “How long can I endure?” but “How does God’s Word commend me to deal with it?” It commands me to destroy troubles, and by destroying the trouble I destroy the need for patience.

Look at James 1:2-4: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” Patience (perseverance) here isn’t the goal; it’s a tool toward maturity. But maturity in what? James doesn’t leave us hanging. Skip to chapter 5: “Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well” (James 5:14-15). See? The Bible’s ethic for everyday woes like illness isn’t endless patience—it’s faith-fueled eradication. Pray in faith, and the trouble vanishes. No need for patience when the mountain’s hurled into the sea (Mark 11:23).

Swinnock’s quote implies troubles are inevitable tutors we must outlast. But that’s defective metaphysics. Troubles aren’t God’s schoolmasters for the elect; Satan ministers sickness and curses (Luke 13:16, Acts 10:38), while God ministers healing and blessings through Christ’s atonement (Isaiah 53:4-5, Galatians 3:13-14). Jesus didn’t tell the bent-over woman, “Lengthen your patience to shorten your bondage.” He said Satan bound her, and as a daughter of Abraham, she must be set free; now! (Luke 13:16). Faith demands the promise; it doesn’t settle for mere endurance. Claiming God’s will for you is sickness, identifies you as His enemy, like the Philistines cursed with tumors (1 Samuel 5). No, insider status in Christ means we resist the devil and he flees (James 4:7)—troubles shorten by eviction, not endurance. The faithless don’t have God’s power to help them and so all they have is human power. All they can do is endure with patience.

This patience fetish is a hallmark of cessationist nonsense, those faith-fumblers who twist Scripture to excuse unbelief. They say, “Suffer patiently; it’s God’s refining fire.” But Jesus, the most God-centered man ever, said, “Your faith has healed you” (Mark 5:34). Jesus didn’t say, “Your patience will shorten it eventually.”

Blaming God’s promises for human failure is like doubting 2+2 because your teacher erred. God wants healing more than you do; He commands faith to grab it (Matthew 21:21). Patience? It’s applicable when waiting for “name it and claim it” to manifest. Like the centurion upgrading his miracle by faith in Jesus’ authority (Matthew 8:8-10).

If God promises healing on faith’s demand (premise), and you believe (premise), then healing follows necessarily (conclusion). Induction—observing unhealed folks and concluding “patience shortens troubles by grit and endurance”—is anti-logic, a non-sequitur.

 The centurion applied sovereignty not to endure but to command reality’s obedience. Peter applied election to Spirit baptism and miracles (Acts 2:38-39). Jesus applied predestination to answered prayers (John 15:7-8). James? Faith heals, period. Swinnock’s ethic inverts this: lengthen patience to shorten troubles. But biblical ethic: Shorten troubles by faith, and patience becomes irrelevant. It’s not good to be patient just to be patient—that’s masochism, not maturity. God doesn’t supply patience to prolong suffering; He supplies faith to end it. Because He loves us with covenant favor, He will always honor faith, with a fish for a fish, and a supernatural healing for a supernatural healing. Are you stranded in a dead alley? Dial God’s hotline by faith, and He will pick you up.

Don’t get me wrong: Persecution for the gospel? Endure patiently (Matthew 5:10-12). But everyday troubles—sickness, poverty, oppression? The Bible’s laser-focused on removal. Abraham’s blessing includes miracles and prosperity (Galatians 3:14); Psalm 91 promises safety from nightly terrors. Why patient endurance when faith commands mountains? Reality obeys you by faith. Swinnock’s way glorifies suffering; God’s way glorifies faith’s victory (John 15:8). Yes, you heard that right. God’s way glorifies the one with faith. The gospel was predestined for your glory. This glory happens when you ask and get the miracle you ask for. This glorifies you, and by this, it glorifies God.

In conclusion, Swinnock’s quote peddles a defective ethic, prioritizing human endurance over divine decree. The Bible’s maxim? “Believe, and you’ll receive” (Mark 11:24)—troubles shorten by annihilation. Patience is a bridge, not the destination; cross it with faith, and the need evaporates. God predestined us for this triumphant life, not stoic drudgery. If you’re in trouble, don’t lengthen patience, lengthen your faith.

Grace Didn’t Striptease Me With Future Hope

Ah, that quote from John Newton—it’s got some truth in it, no denying that, but brother, it’s like he’s staring at the rearview mirror while the glory train is blasting full speed ahead.

“I am not what I ought to be, I am not what I want to be, I am not what I hope to be in another world; but still I am not what I once used to be, and by the grace of God I am what I am.”

Newton, the old slave trader turned grace-singer, he’s got the humility angle down real, real, real hard. And yes, acknowledging the past mess isn’t wrong, because Scripture tells us to remember where we came from, like Israel recalling Egypt (Deuteronomy 8:2). But here’s the thunderclap: he’s emphasizing the wrong thing. All that “not what I ought, not what I want, not what I hope” drags the soul into a worm-theology pit, focusing on lacks and longs when the New Covenant screams present reality: righteousness, power, miracles, and victory in Christ, right here, right now. Saints, we’re not stumbling in “not yets”; we are already seated with Him in heavenly places (Ephesians 2:6), reigning in life through Jesus (Romans 5:17). G Grace doesn’t just forgive the past, it explodes into now with kingdom dynamite.

First, let’s hit that “I am not what I ought to be.” Newton’s tipping his hat to the ongoing battle, the flesh warring against the spirit (Galatians 5:17), and sure, sanctification’s progressive—we’re working out what God’s worked in (Philippians 2:12-13). Hebrews 10 says God is sanctifying those He has already perfected. Thus,  emphasizing the “not ought” like it’s the headline? That’s missing the plot. The “ought” is already yours positionally in Christ. You’re the righteousness of God in Him (2 Corinthians 5:21), holy and blameless in His sight (Colossians 1:22).

Salvation is not just ethics or future pie-in-the-sky; it’s reality now. God recreated you a new species, a prince of heaven, with diplomatic immunity under the New Covenant (Hebrews 8:8-13). Sickness? Poverty? Defeat? Those are Satan’s ministry and lies. Jesus became sin, sickness, and curse so you could be righteous, healed, and blessed (Galatians 3:13-14; Isaiah 53:4-5). I remember my own pit—depression choking me like a python, suicidal whispers in the night. But the Spirit hit me: “You are a child of God; these things fear you, not the other way around!” And Boom, I received instant healing, and I started declaring promises over “my observations.” This is the Christian ethic, declaring the promises of God and receiving the: not groveling in weakness, but bulldozing Satan’s works with faith confessions. Newton glances at the past change, but he fumbles the lead. Grace makes you what you ought right now, not in some hazy future.

Then there’s “I am not what I want to be.” This one stings if you let it, because who hasn’t wanted more—more faith, more victory? Paul wanted the thorn gone (2 Corinthians 12:7-9), (false super-apostles) but God’s grace was sufficient, turning weakness into power showcase. But again, Newton’s emphasis skews wrong, fixating on the gap when the want is already met in Christ. What do you want? Healing? Prosperity? Power? The covenant guarantees it, because Jesus’ blood activated the last will and testament, depositing Abraham’s blessings into your account (Galatians 3:14; 2 Corinthians 8:9). In systematic theology, I call it over-engineering: grace doesn’t just meet needs; it overflows with miracles. Praying in tongues? That’s the cheat code, building you up (1 Corinthians 14:4), keeping you in love (Jude 1:20-21), and unlocking your wants served on a gold platter. I was a smoldering wick once, wanting joy but drowning in despair. But one-on-one ministry with the Spirit, by praying in tongues and naming-it-claiming-it, and suddenly wants aligned with reality and peace like a river flowed (Mark 11:23). Newton nods to grace making him “what I am,” but he downplays the now. All promises are yes in Christ (2 Corinthians 1:20). Don’t confess lacks; confess all the blessing already yours in Jesus. Sickness knocking? “By His stripes, I am healed!” Poverty lurking? “My God supplies all needs!” That’s the want fulfilled, here and now, not a wish list for glory.

And “I am not what I hope to be in another world.” Here’s where Newton really tips the scale wrong, shoving hope into eschatology like the best is postmortem. Sure, we groan for the resurrection body (Romans 8:23), seeing Him as He is (1 John 3:2). But eschatology is not escapism, it’s expansionism! Jesus is reigning from the throne now, and we’re co-heirs, enforcing His victory (Ephesians 1:19-23). A.D. 70 judgments are past, and Satan’s final smackdown is decreed; but the kingdom’s advancing today through miracles, healings, and power. Hope is not deferred; it’s applied throne-room access. Newton hopes for another world, but Scripture says the world to come is subjected to us now (Hebrews 2:5-8, Eph. 1:19-23, Mark 11:23). What about Miracles? Jesus tells us to prove ourselves His by asking for miracles and getting them (John 15:7-8). I’ve seen sickness flee and fears shatter when I declare faith in His promises. What about tongues and prophecy? Available to those with faith. Don’t park hope in heaven; plant hope for good things down here. God’s power delivered me from demonic terror. Grace didn’t striptease me with future hope; it slammed a victory for me now. Newton’s emphasis delays the party, and that is wrong. Hope does not bring shame because God’s love has already been poured out now (Romans 5:5).

Now, the pivot Newton makes—”still I am not what I once used to be.” This is correct as far as it goes; the past-to-present shift, and it’s not wrong to state it. Remembering the old man keeps gratitude flowing, like Paul recounting his blasphemer days (1 Timothy 1:13-15). Newton went from chains to “Amazing Grace”; I went from wreck to warrior. But even here, don’t linger! The past is crucified (Galatians 2:20). Only God’s thoughts about reality matter, and God thinks my old man is dead. Who am, I that I should disagree with God? We are to focus on the new creation (2 Corinthians 5:17). What about sin’s power? It is Broken. Sickness? It has been crushed at the cross (Matthew 8:16-17). Newton’s right: by grace, we are what we are. But grace isn’t a pat on the back; it’s covenant firepower, sovereign favor molding us into overcomers (Romans 8:37). God boasts about us when faith shines (Hebrews 11), not when we mope in “nots.”

It’s not wrong to nod at the past mess or ongoing chisel, but what about the emphasis? Slam it on present glory. Righteousness: yours now, credited fully. Power: the same power that raised Christ, surging in you (Ephesians 1:19). Miracles? They are normal, commanded by faith. Heal the sick, cast out demons (Mark 16:17-18). Victory? It is both your definition and command to reign in life; dominating circumstances, time, reality. No more worm theology; you are a superior species, a child of God, with bold throne-room access (Hebrews 4:16). Pray in tongues and declare His promises, and by this, let the Spirit minister to you, one-on-one. Newton saw grace change him, but he underplayed the explosion. It is now, by grace. What are you now? Victorious, powerful, miraculous. This is the bible’s focus, and so it will also be ours.

Grief as Doubt: A Fraudulent Theology of Unbelief

August 30, 2025

The post in question, titled “WHY IS GOD SILENT IN MY GRIEF?” spins a tale of a man’s tragic loss—his pregnant wife killed in a hit-and-run—and uses it as a springboard to normalize doubt, questioning, and feelings of abandonment as natural, even biblical, responses to grief. It cites David’s lament in Psalm 10:1, Job’s weeping, and even Jesus’ cry on the cross to suggest that grief “makes you question. It makes you doubt God’s love. It makes you feel abandoned.” Then it pivots to consolations like Psalm 34:18 and Hebrews 13:5, attributing the pain to Satan’s schemes while urging the reader to “let God in” and “hold His hand” through the “valley of sorrow.” This is presented as compassionate Christian teaching, but it’s a manipulative scam, rooted in emotionalism and unbelief. It’s autobiographical projection: just because grief shattered this writer’s faith doesn’t mean it shatters mine—or yours—and it certainly doesn’t mean the Bible endorses such weakness as inevitable or virtuous.

This theology is fraudulent because it elevates human experience over God’s revelation, turning grief into a license for unbelief. The post assumes that because one man “ran mad instantly” and his “mind broke,” this is the universal believer’s fate in loss. But that’s not Scripture; that’s superstition. Maxim 1: God is the foundation for theology, not man. If we start with man’s broken emotions as the norm, we end up with a defective worldview that glorifies doubt as a spiritual badge. The Bible doesn’t normalize grief-induced questioning as acceptable; it condemns it as sin. Faith, not feelings, is the command. Jesus didn’t say, “Grief makes you doubt—embrace it.” He said, “Have faith in God” (Mark 11:22). Jesus told Jairus to “not Fear,” but “only believe.” After telling the disciples about His death, Jesus said, “do you let your hearts be trouble,” and to “cheer up.” Doubt isn’t a phase; it’s disobedience.

Look at the Scriptures twisted here. David cries in Psalm 10:1, “Why, Lord, do you stand far off?” But the post ignores the resolution: David’s psalms end in triumph, affirming God’s deliverance (Psalm 10:16-18).  David wasn’t modeling perpetual doubt; he was venting in a pre-resurrection era, before the full light of Christ’s victory. We live under the New Covenant, where the Spirit empowers us to claim joy and restoration now. To wallow in David’s momentary cry is to reject the gospel’s greater revelation. However, David said God delivers him from all his troubles, heals all his sickness, and prospers him. David was not a model of perpetual grief; his psalms often resolve in praise and confidence in God’s deliverance.

Job weeps in ashes after losing everything (Job 1:20-22), but the book isn’t a grief manual—it’s a revelation of God’s sovereignty being used to bless Job with double wealth and double health, in this life, not just the next. Job repents of his foolish questions (Job 42:1-6) and receives double back, not because he endured scars piously, but because he acknowledged God in truthfulness. The post’s “scars that no man can see” sentiment is humanistic drivel; Scripture promises healing for the brokenhearted, not eternal emotional wounds. The bibles says we have a sound mind full of peace and joy by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Even Jesus’ cry, “My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46), is abused to justify doubt. This wasn’t abandonment or questioning God’s love—it was fulfillment of Psalm 22, declaring the Messiah’s sin-bearing agony. Jesus bore our forsakenness so we wouldn’t have to. Think about that. Jesus bore our anguish, so we do not bear it in our minds. To equate our grief-doubts with Christ’s redemptive suffering is blasphemous, reducing the atonement to therapy for feelings. The post says, “Grief makes you doubt God’s love”—but that’s not biblical; that’s projection. Maxim 18: Jesus is the most God-centered man who ever lived. He marveled at faith, not doubt or good behavior. If grief “makes” you doubt, it’s because your faith was defective to begin with, rooted in emotions, not God’s Word.

This manipulation is autobiographical because the writer assumes his breakdown is everyone’s. “Many believers never remain the same after the passing of their loved ones.” Speak for yourself. I’ve lost my identical twin brother Joshua, as I dedicated my Systematic Theology to him. Did grief make me question God’s love? No. It drove me deeper into faith, affirming God’s sovereignty and promises. Maxim 2: God is absolutely and directly sovereign over all things, including knowledge, man, and salvation. God ordained the loss in the ultimate sense, but He relates to me on the relative level. He relates to me based on His finished atonement, established Contract and freely given promises to bless me, and give me abundant life (John 10:10). Satan steals and destroys. Satan is bad. God is good. The solution is not to feel abandoned but to exercise authority over Satan through faith. To feel “abandoned” is to ignore Hebrews 13:5, not because God is silent, but because you’ve plugged your ears with unbelief. God isn’t silent; He’s spoken in Scripture, the self-authenticating starting point. If you perceive silence, it means you are carnal and not spiritual: You are relating to God based on carnality or by sight and not by faith and the Spirit.  

The consolations are half-truths laced with sentimentality. Psalm 34:18: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” This promises salvation from brokenness, not companionship in it. This verse promises salvation from crushed spirits, not perpetual companionship in them. God does not weep with you in some empathetic solidarity; He commands you to rejoice in His deliverance. God doesn’t “weep with you” in empathetic weakness—He takes the suffering away and replaces it with blessings. God’s power and love cannot be divided like a man. God’s love and power means He makes the bad things go away. The idea of God as a hand-holding therapist through the “valley of sorrow” reduces Him to a humanistic crutch, as mere human ability. All things are possible for God. But all things are possible for people with faith. Faith claims victory: “I will not die but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done” (Psalm 118:17).

Revelation 21:4’s tear-wiping is eschatological, but faith tastes it now—no more mourning through the atonement. “There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain”—refers to the eschatological consummation, but through faith, we taste this victory now. God is not waiting to walk you through pain; He has already provided the way out through faith in His Word.

Satan uses grief to break you? True, but the solution isn’t shutting God out—it’s unbelief that does that. The post urges, “Let God in. Don’t shut Him out.” But if you’re doubting, you’ve already shut Him out by rejecting His Word. Maxim 16: Reprobates who resist faith on demand for healing and blessings have sided with demons to trample the blood of Christ. This theology conspires against the gospel, glorifying emotional scars over faith’s triumph. It glorifies man as stronger than God, stronger than the Word, and stronger than the Spirit.

Reject this fraud. Grief doesn’t “make” you doubt unless you let it. Maxim 17: Faith will always move mountains, real ones. By faith, reality obeys you. By faith, you save yourself from grief’s madness. Confess God’s promises: comfort, restoration, joy. My brother’s death didn’t break me; it fueled my theology, pouring faith into pages so no one leaves before their time. Don’t normalize doubt—it’s unbelief. Stand on Scripture: God is sovereign, faith conquers. You being victorious over grief glorifies God, not your “scars.”

Maxim 14: Reprobates focus on men. Christians focus on God. Focus on Christ: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Claim it by faith. No valley is too deep for mountain-moving belief. Faith is not an emotional state but a firm intellectual assent to God’s promises, confessed boldly regardless of circumstances.

The post ends with a link to “Christian Legacy Teachings,” but if this is their legacy, it is one of defeat, not the triumphant inheritance of the saints.

In a nutshell: Grief ain’t your faith’s kryptonite unless you hand over the cape. The post’s pity party is just emotional bait—don’t bite. God’s Word says faith flips the script on sorrow, turning tears into triumphs. Doubt? That’s unbelief’s autograph. Grab your faith hammer and smash those “scars”—because in God’s kingdom, victory’s the only scar that sticks.

Prosperity: God’s Big Idea

By Oshea Davis 

29, 2025 

Today, let’s start with the prayer of Jabez in 1 Chronicles 4:10: “Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, ‘Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.’ And God granted his request” (NIV). 

Boom—God didn’t rebuke Jabez for asking big; He answered yes. Prosperity isn’t a side hustle; it’s God’s original blueprint, lost in sin, partially restored to Abraham, and fully unleashed in Jesus. And get this: It’s yours by faith, in ways that make reprobates squirm. 

First off, prosperity was God’s idea from the jump—Creation itself screams abundance. Genesis 1:1 kicks off with God crafting a universe teeming with riches: gold in Havilah (Genesis 2:12), fruitful trees, rivers flowing, animals multiplying. He didn’t make a barren wasteland; He engineered a paradise of plenty. He called this overabundance “Good,” and so lack and poverty are “bad.” God didn’t design scarcity and then call it good. No, prosperity reflects His nature—generous, overflowing, unstoppable. He spoke, and wealth materialized: stars for navigation, soil for crops, seas for trade. Creation wasn’t neutral; it was loaded with provision, a divine trust fund for humanity. God likes big—big universes, big blessings, big faith. If you’re thinking small, that’s your human empiricism talking, not God’s Word. 

Enter Adam: God handed him the keys to this prosperous kingdom. Genesis 1:28: “God blessed them and said to them, ‘Be fruitful and increase in number; fill the earth and subdue it. Rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky and over every living creature that moves on the ground.'” Dominion! Adam wasn’t scratching for scraps; he ruled a garden where “gold… and onyx” abounded (Genesis 2:11-12), food grew effortlessly, and work was stewardship, not toil. The Garden was not Adam working to get rich; rather, it was God making Adam rich and then Adam managing this wealth. Eden defines prosperity mainly and directly as very material. However, there are other blessings involved such as authority, relational harmony, physical health. Adam walked with God in opulence, no lack, no limits. This was the original deal: Man as God’s image-bearer, prospering in every sphere because God supplied it all (as per Maxim 13: “God’s unmerited favor supplies man, man does not supply God”). But reprobates twist this, saying wealth corrupts. Nonsense—Adam’s prosperity was pure until sin crashed the party. 

Ah, the Fall—where prosperity got hijacked. Genesis 3:17-19: Cursed ground, thorns, sweat for bread. Adam’s rebellion didn’t just bring spiritual death; it unleashed poverty, sickness, and struggle. The abundant earth turned hostile, mirroring man’s death. Sin didn’t erase God’s prosperous design; it veiled it under a curse. Humanity toiled in lack, empires rose on exploitation, and scarcity became the norm in many places. But here’s the kicker: Even in judgment, God hinted at restoration (Genesis 3:15). Prosperity wasn’t revoked forever; it was postponed for the faithful. Those who peddle “poverty vows” as holiness? They’re glorifying the curse, siding with Satan—the ultimate thief who comes to steal, kill, and destroy (John 10:10). Defective ethics at its worst. 

Then God kickstarts the comeback with Abraham. Genesis 12:2-3: “I will make you into a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you will be a blessing… and all peoples on earth will be blessed through you.” Abraham wasn’t some ascetic monk; he got filthy rich—livestock, silver, gold, king’s ransoms (Genesis 13:2). Why? Faith. He believed God’s promise, and prosperity flowed: land enlargements, victories over kings, supernatural favor. This was a substantial and multifaceted prosperity restoration, even if it wasn’t perfected heaven itself. Thus, even when Abraham faced famines and foes, he still came out victorious and rich. This fallen world, with all its curses and problems, kneeled under the boot of Abraham’s blessing to be prosperous. What God promised Abraham was a down payment, bypassing the curse. Galatians 3:14 calls it “the blessing of Abraham,” including the Spirit and miracles, but don’t sleep on the wealth: Deuteronomy 8:18 echoes it, “It is he who gives you the ability to produce wealth.” God began reversing Adam’s loss through covenant faith, proving prosperity honors Him when rooted in faith. Reprobates who bash “prosperity gospel”? They’re blind to this—Abraham’s blessing was God’s wealth transfer program, started with one man in faith, but completely fulfilled in Christ. 

Fast-forward to Jesus: Full restoration, no holds barred. Galatians 3:13-14: “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us… so that by faith we might receive the promise of the Spirit.” And that promise? Abraham’s blessing, but amplified through Jesus. Jesus became poor so we could become rich (2 Corinthians 8:9). The context is not spiritual wealth, but filthy money and material riches. He ministered wealth as part of His high-priest gig: righteousness, wealth, and healing. Only God’s thoughts matter. In the mind of God, He thinks the atonement swapped our poverty for Jesus’ riches, our sickness for health, our curse for blessing. Post-resurrection, we’re new creations (2 Corinthians 5:17), seated with Him above lack (Ephesians 2:6). Our Maxim 12 roars: “They financially prosper and are healed by faith in the gospel of Jesus.” In Christ, prosperity isn’t optional—it’s inheritance. Doubt it? You’re limiting God (Psalm 78:41), confessing empiricism instead of God’s word. 

Now, how does God grant this prosperity by faith? Not some cookie-cutter formula but simply believing His Word. First, direct asking in Jesus’ name—John 16:23: “My Father will give you whatever you ask in my name.” Jabez-style: “Enlarge my borders!” Faith confession moves mountains (Mark 11:23), including financial ones. Speak wealth into existence, because reality obeys faith. Second, through wisdom and favor—Proverbs 8:18: “With me are riches and honor.” God gives ideas, opportunities, divine connections (like Abraham’s alliances). Third, sowing and reaping—2 Corinthians 9:6-8: Generous giving multiplies back, not as works, but by God’s promise received by faith. Fourth, miraculous provision—Matthew 17:27: Fish with coins? Why not? It’s available to faith. Agree that God is correct. Assent to God’s promises, act on them, and watch. But beware—unbelief blocks it, like the Israelites’ evil report. Defective faith-fumblers say, “Prosperity’s not for today.” Wrong! It’s for insiders, co-heirs who boldly approach the throne (Hebrews 4:16). If they choose to not see themselves as insiders and not boldly approach and receive, then they must hate their lives. Why join the dead? Why join with the faithless? Why join those who toss away their own lives as trash? 

Reprobates focus on men; but the faithful focus on God (Maxim 14). Chase Him, and wealth chases you. If you are chasing God without healing and prosperity and blessings chasing you, then it means you are chasing God while you disbelieve Him. This is the sad and degrading life of the faithless. Chasing something they hate and distrust. 

In sum, prosperity’s God’s brainchild from Creation, gifted to Adam, snatched by sin, rebooted with Abraham, and maxed out in Christ. Jabez nailed it—ask big, get big. If you’re not prospering, check your faith, not God’s will (see Maxim 19: “God’s Word is His will”). Prosperity is God’s idea, from creation to Abraham and finally in Jesus. When you pray for prosperity you are not asking a reluctant God. You are agreeing with God and receiving what He has already provided. “You have given me wealth in Abraham’s blessing and in Your Son’s atonement, and I agree with you. You are correct. I thank you for prosperity and receive it through the unmerited favor you gave it in.”

Identified with the Resurrected Christ, Not the Earthly Jesus

Posted: August 25, 2025 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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