Faith That Moves

Last Sunday, we heard a powerful and challenging message from my friend Jeremiah.

He walked us through James 2:14–26 and gave us a crystal-clear reminder that real faith is more than belief—it’s obedience. It’s not just agreeing with Jesus; it’s following him with our lives.

If you missed that message, I want to encourage you to go back and watch it. It’s worth your time…

Because Jeremiah helped us see what it means to close the gap between what we say we believe and how we actually live—what he called the “execution gap.”

Today, I want to stay in that same passage—but come at it from a slightly different angle.

Because James doesn’t just challenge us to do any good deeds. He narrows in on a particular kind of action: how we treat people who are overlooked, or under-resourced, or undervalued.

In other words, he says the authenticity of our faith shows up in how we treat other people—especially the ones who have nothing to offer us in return.

So here’s the question I want to ask as we explore this:

Does your faith make a difference in how you treat others?
Does it show up in mercy? In compassion? In generosity?

Because James is about to tell us—if it doesn’t show up there, it might not be faith at all.

But before we get too comfortable, let me start with a slightly uncomfortable question:

What’s something you’ve claimed to believe… but didn’t actually live out?

We’ve all done it.

“I believe in eating clean.” (Meanwhile, your Chick-fil-A points are racking up like a 401k.)
“I believe in work-life balance.” (But you checked your email four times and took two calls during your kid’s soccer game.)
“I believe in minimalism.” (But your garage is one spontaneous emotional breakdown away from being featured on Hoarders.)

Belief is easy to declare.

Living it is the hard part.

We’ve got mission statements, LinkedIn values, and personal mantras…

But the gap between what we say and what we actually do is what’s addressed in the text we’ll look at today.

And James—Jesus’ half-brother—isn’t here to coddle us.

Side note: James grew up with Jesus. He saw him leave his sandals by the door. He watched him do the dishes.

He didn’t believe Jesus was the Messiah until after the resurrection.

Which makes this letter even more compelling.

Because James isn’t quoting a secondhand source. He’s writing as someone who watched God become flesh.

And now he’s writing to the early church—scattered, suffering, trying to survive in a world where declaring faith in Jesus wasn’t a resume booster, it was a risk.

And James cuts through all the posturing:

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them? (James 2:14)

Let me pause right there, because this line has caused some serious theological heartburn over the centuries.

Martin Luther—the original Reformer, not the civil rights icon—read James and said, “It’s an epistle of straw.”

He thought James was contradicting Paul, who said we’re saved by faith alone.

But that’s not what’s happening.

It might help to think about it this way:

Paul was fighting legalism.
James is fighting laziness.

Paul’s audience was trying to earn salvation through good behavior.
James’ audience thought they could download the correct theology and call it transformation.

So they’re not arguing with each other. They’re facing opposite enemies with the same sword.

I’ve always thought of it this way:

Paul says: “Works don’t save you.”
James says: “But saving faith works.”

They’re not contradicting. They’re collaborating.

Now, let me share a story with you.

Years ago, I met a guy who had the Bible practically memorized.

He could quote Romans 8 like it was his Starbucks order.
He knew the Greek root of every verb in the New Testament.
He had opinions about punctuation in the NASB. (That’s not a joke. He once argued that a misplaced comma diluted the power of Ephesians.)

But you know what he didn’t have?

Grace.

He was rude to waiters.
He sighed out loud during prayer requests.
He rolled his eyes at emotional worship songs.

He knew Scripture—but not people. And certainly not compassion.

Eventually, someone asked him, “What do you think Jesus meant by ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’?”

He paused and said, “Well… it depends on how you define neighbor.”

That’s when you know someone’s faith has gotten stuck in a spreadsheet.

You see, he didn’t need more theology. He needed transformation.

And that’s exactly what James is writing about.

This section—James 2:14–26—is one of the most debated, misunderstood, and clarifying passages in the New Testament.

Because James isn’t questioning whether faith saves. He’s questioning whether what we call faith is actually faith at all.

Let’s be real:

There’s a kind of faith that agrees with doctrine…

…affirms creeds…
…attends church…
…and never changes a thing.

It never disrupts the calendar.
It never costs a dollar.
It never moves toward messy people.
It never does anything Jesus actually did.

And James says: that kind of faith is dead.

You see, real faith…

Acts when it would be easier to scroll.
Moves when comfort says stay.
Loves when it’s not efficient.
Builds bridges when the culture says burn them.

Because a faith that stays on the page… never changes the world.

And if that’s the kind of faith we’ve been settling for—James is inviting us to wake up.

So if you’re ready, let’s open our Bibles to James 2:14–26. And let’s wise up.

Lets start by reading verses 14–17:

James writes:

What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save them?

Suppose a brother or a sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and well fed,’ but does nothing about their physical needs, what good is it?

In the same way, faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead.
(James 2:14-17)

Let’s just acknowledge up front—James is not subtle.

He doesn’t say, “Well, maybe try doing something with your beliefs.”
He doesn’t suggest a service project or offer a three-point application.

He says: “What good is a faith that does nothing?”

Then he hits us with an example so absurd, it could be mistaken for satire.

A person walks into your church hungry, cold, probably shivering—and you say:
“Go in peace. Be warm. Be fed.” And then you leave.

It’s almost comedy in its cruelty.

This is like seeing your friend broken down on 580 and pulling over—just long enough to say:

“Hey, I affirm your automotive resilience. Stay strong. I believe in you.”

Then driving off with a smile, Chick-fil-A in one hand and your Bible app open in the other.

James gives us a scene that borders on ridiculous because he’s confronting a ridiculous idea: That faith could be real without ever becoming real-life.

The phrase “Go in peace, be warm and well fed” wasn’t invented by James.

It was a common Jewish farewell, a kind of first-century “Take care of yourself.”

But here, it’s hollow. It’s offensive. It’s weaponized politeness.

James is holding up a mirror to the religious people of his day and saying: “This is what you sound like when your belief stays theoretical.”

And part of what makes this so urgent is that James is writing within just a couple decades of the resurrection—and already, some Christians were misunderstanding grace as permission to disengage.

They were taking Paul’s message—“salvation by faith, not by works”—and twisting it into “Faith is just belief. Behavior is optional.”

They believed all the right things.
They had good doctrine.

But their lives never moved. And James is like: “That’s not faith. That’s a spiritual costume.”

The Greek word James uses for “dead” here doesn’t mean sick, struggling, or under construction. It means lifeless—a corpse.

He’s not saying, “Try harder.” He’s saying, “Check the pulse.”

Because real faith breathes. It flexes. It lives.
Dead faith, on the other hand, just… lies there.

It’s like someone who owns a Vicking stove, a high-end Vitamix, and a Japanese chef’s knife—but still eats out six nights a week. Lots of equipment. No execution.
Or it’s the spiritual equivalent of a Tesla with no battery. It looks sleek in the garage, but you’re not going anywhere. By the way, I don’t have anything against Tesla or Elon Musk. I’m not trying to make a political statement. There are just so many people who own Teslas that they’re easy to make fun of.

And James knows what’s at stake. Because in the ancient world, the credibility of the Christian message depended on Christian compassion.

Historian Rodney Stark, in his work on the rise of Christianity, notes that the early church gained influence not through political lobbying or celebrity conversions—but because they showed up when no one else did.

When a plague hit a Roman city, the wealthy and powerful fled.

Christians stayed.

They fed the sick.
They buried the dead.
They risked their own lives—not to make a point, but to show their faith was real.

And people noticed.

The church didn’t grow because it was cool. It grew because it was courageous.

We can talk all day about theology, but let’s get practical for a second:

You know what dead faith looks like?

Saying “I’ll pray for you”… and then forgetting before you hit the parking lot.
Posting #thoughtsandprayers on social media, but never following up.
Feeling a wave of compassion… and soothing it with an oat milk latte.

Dead faith makes us feel better without making anything better. It’s like setting a reminder to serve someone, then snoozing it into eternity.

Now, James is not attacking struggling Christians.

He’s not shaming the doubters, the deconstructors, or the spiritually tired. He’s calling out those of us who have settled into a version of Christianity that costs us nothing.

A faith that lives in our playlists and not in our calendars.
A faith that’s all affirmation and zero transformation.
A faith with convictions but no compassion.

And that’s why James is so intense. He knows that when the church loses its movement, it loses its meaning.

So here’s where we land this section:

Who in your life needs more than words right now?
Where are you being nudged to move from agreement to action?
What would your week look like if your faith had feet?

Because at the end of the day:

Dead faith sees a need and scrolls past.
Living faith sees a need and moves.

Alright, lets move on to verses 18–20.

James writes:

But someone will say, ‘You have faith; I have deeds.’ Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds. You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that—and shudder. You foolish person, do you want evidence that faith without deeds is useless? (James 2:18–20)

James now imagines a hypothetical debate partner—like a first-century theological Twitter spat:

“You have your thing—faith. I have mine—action. Tomato, to-mah-to.”

It’s the spiritual version of, “You do you.”

But James isn’t having it. His response?

“Show me your faith without deeds… I’ll show you mine by what I do.”

That’s not a flex. That’s a theological mic-drop.

Because he’s saying: You can’t see faith unless it does something.

It’s not invisible belief + bonus behaviors.
It’s faith that becomes visible because it’s real.

To say, “I have faith, I just don’t express it” is like saying:

“I love my kids, I just don’t talk to them.”
“I value justice, but I’m not getting political.”
“I’m into fitness, but not… movement.”

James is pushing back against the idea that faith is just one part of a personalized spirituality package—like picking Peloton classes or podcast playlists.

“You do theology. I do good works.”
“You’re into creeds. I’m more of a deeds person.”

And James is saying: No. Real faith and faithful action aren’t competitors. They’re co-conspirators.

And then James delivers the fierce punchline:

You believe there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that—and shudder.

Let’s translate:

“Oh, you believe in God? Cool. So do demons. At least they have the decency to tremble.”

Imagine dropping that in your small group:

“Steve, I love that you believe in monotheism. So do demons.”

It’s devastating.

And for a Jewish listener, this would have hit especially hard.

Because James is quoting the Shema—the most sacred creed in Judaism:

Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. (Deuteronomy 6:4)

This was recited every morning and evening. It was their John 3:16.

The theological center of gravity.
The heartbeat of covenant identity.

So when James says, “Even demons believe that,” he’s not just being sarcastic—he’s deconstructing empty orthodoxy.

He’s confronting the idea that affirming the right beliefs equals having a right relationship with God.

Because demons? They believe in God.

They recognize Jesus.
They tremble before His authority.
They’ve got great theology.

But no surrender.
No obedience.
No love.

And James says: That’s what dead faith looks like. It believes—but it doesn’t bow.

This is where James gets uncomfortably relevant for the well-read, well-educated, and well-podcasted.

Because in a place like the Bay Area, it’s easy to fall into the trap of thinking that knowing more is the same as growing more.

We binge theology podcasts, stack our Goodreads with Keller, Nouwen, Bonhoeffer, and the occasional Brené Brown…

We love nuance. We quote footnotes.

And yet—none of that matters if it never touches the ground.

Let me put it this way:

You can listen to a six-part podcast on emotional intelligence… and still ghost someone after conflict.
You can read three books on forgiveness… and still rehearse old resentments.
You can say “I’m all about community”… and still treat small group like a drop-in yoga class.

James isn’t down on theology—he’s down on trivia masquerading as transformation.

There’s a difference between believing in God… and believing God.

One is agreement.
The other is trust.

James is asking: Where does your faith stop short?

Think of it like this:

You’ve got a premium subscription to a meal kit service—Michelin-star level recipes, locally sourced ingredients, perfectly portioned for your Whole30 dreams.

But you never cook.

You read the recipe card, maybe even show it to a friend.

But the ingredients rot in the fridge while you DoorDash In-N-Out Burger.

You don’t need more recipes.
You need to make a meal.

James is saying: Faith without action is like a recipe you never taste.

It might be technically correct—but it’s practically useless.

Now, some of us were raised in traditions where faith was primarily cognitive—about what you affirm.

Others were taught that faith is mostly emotional—about what you feel.

But James says: Faith is ultimately relational.

It trusts.
It obeys.
It moves toward what God says—even when it’s hard.

Demons believe—but they shudder in rebellion.
Disciples believe—and they move in surrender.

So before we move on, let’s get practical:

Where are we saying, “I believe,” but we’re resisting obedience?
Where are we content to talk, but hesitant to act?
Where do we admire Jesus… but avoid his commands?

James ends this section with another dagger:

Faith without deeds is useless. (James 2:20)

That word useless can also mean idle—like a power outlet that’s not connected to any electricity.

It looks right.
It’s installed correctly.
But plug in your charger, and… nothing.

No charge. No current. No fruit.

And James says: Don’t settle for that.

So here’s where we land:

Is your faith more visible in your Google Drive than in your neighborhood?
Are there truths you affirm that haven’t yet changed your behavior?
Are you mistaking spiritual information for spiritual formation?

The good news is: James isn’t trying to embarrass us. He’s trying to wake us up.

Because if you’re still breathing—you still have time to live your faith.

Alright, lets move on to verses 21–26.

James could have ended with “faith without works is dead”—but he’s not finished.

Instead, he brings in two case studies. Two real people, from wildly different places on the spiritual and social spectrum:

Abraham: male, patriarch, wealthy, respected, revered. The original covenant guy.
Rahab: female, Gentile, poor, marginalized. A prostitute from the wrong side of the wall in Jericho.

In modern terms, it’s like James pointing to a respected seminary professor and a former exotic dancer—and saying, “They both got it right.”

Same God. Same call to faith. Totally different lives.

Same principle: real faith acts.

Let’s start with Abraham. If you grew up around church, you probably sang that song: “Father Abraham had many sons…” (And if you didn’t, count yourself lucky.)

But James skips past Abraham’s titles and focuses on his test.

Was not our father Abraham considered righteous for what he did when he offered his son Isaac on the altar? (James 2:21)

This is referring to Genesis 22—one of the most jarring scenes in Scripture.

God tells Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, the son he waited decades for.

And Abraham says, “Yes.”

Now let’s be real. That’s wild.

Most of us can’t part with our favorite mug without mild grieving, and Abraham is about to hand over his miracle child?

And yet, Abraham gets up early, saddles his donkey, climbs the mountain, ties his son down, raises the knife…

He believes—and obeys—even when it makes no sense.

His faith and his actions were working together, and his faith was made complete by what he did. (James 2:22)

James says Abraham’s faith wasn’t proven by theory—but by movement.
He didn’t just believe in God—he believed God enough to act.

Abraham’s belief had legs—It walked up the mountain. It held the knife. And it trusted that somehow, even if the worst happened, God could still bring life.

That’s faith with calluses. Not soft spirituality. Not intellectual assent.

Faith that costs. Faith that climbs.

Then James does something shocking: he puts Rahab in the same breath as Abraham.

In the same way, was not even Rahab the prostitute considered righteous for what she did when she gave lodging to the spies…? (James 2:25)

Rahab, the Canaanite woman with a scandalous résumé. Her LinkedIn profile wouldn’t exactly impress a synagogue elder board.

And yet—she believes that Israel’s God is the real deal. She hides the Hebrew spies, lies to her own authorities, and helps them escape.

She risks everything.

Why?

Because her belief isn’t theoretical.

It moves.
It shields.
It saves.

She doesn’t have perfect theology. She’s not living an upright life. She’s never been to Torah study.

And yet James says—she was considered righteous.

Not because she filled out the right doctrinal statement… but because her faith made her act.

Can we pause for a moment?

James is telling us that the faith of a Canaanite prostitute was just as valid—just as alive—as the faith of Abraham, the father of Israel.

That’s the upside-down beauty of the kingdom of God.

God isn’t looking for polished résumés. He’s looking for surrendered hearts. For trust that turns into action.

Abraham and Rahab make an unlikely pair—but together they paint a full picture.

One is powerful, the other powerless.
One has social capital, the other has none.
One is insider, the other is outsider.

But both respond in the same way: they move toward God in faith.

James is telling us: There’s no one-size-fits-all for active faith.

Whether you’re a startup founder or struggling with your past…
Whether you’re a dad in Danville or a student trying to figure out life…

What God is looking for is not performance. It’s movement.

Let’s bring it home.

James says:

As the body without breath is dead, so faith without deeds is dead. (James 2:26)

It has all the parts… but no life.

Faith without works is like a relationship that never shows up.
Like a perfectly curated website with broken links.
Like someone who talks about mindfulness but hasn’t taken a deep breath since 2019.

You can say the words. But if there’s no life behind them… it’s not real.

James says Abraham’s faith was “made complete” by what he did.

It’s the same Greek word used in James 1:4 for maturity or wholeness.

So James isn’t saying that works replace faith—but that faith finds its fullness in obedience.

It’s not a rival gospel—it’s the full expression of the real one.

James doesn’t want you to be the person with a “faith” bumper sticker who never stops for the stranded driver.

He wants you to be the kind of person who moves—who lives what they believe when:

It’s inconvenient.
It’s costly.
It’s lonely.
It’s scary.

Because faith that doesn’t move… doesn’t matter.

So I want to ask you:

What is your faith costing you right now?
Where is God asking you to obey—even when it doesn’t make sense?
Where do you need to take a risk because you trust Him?

Abraham walked uphill with no answers.
Rahab risked everything with no guarantees.

What step is God asking you to take today?

James ends by saying, again: Faith without works is dead.

But flip that around—and here’s the hope:

Faith with works is alive.

And alive faith?

Shows up in families.
Changes communities.
Heals relationships.
Welcomes strangers.
Moves toward justice.
Loves enemies.

Keeps showing up when the rest of the world scrolls past.

Alive faith looks like Jesus.

And alive faith is what the world is dying to see.

So after all that James has said…

After “faith without works is dead”…
After Abraham climbed a mountain with trembling hands…
After Rahab opened her door at risk to her life…

We’re left with one hauntingly beautiful question: What does your faith look like—when it moves?

Because faith that never leaves your head won’t change anything. But faith that moves your feet? That can change the world. Starting with one life.

Let me close with a story.

A number of years ago, a high school girl named Sarah started volunteering at a homeless shelter. Not for service hours. Not for college apps. Not to launch a nonprofit with a catchy mission statement and a merch store.

Just… because she believed following Jesus meant doing something.

One night, while serving dinner, she noticed a man sitting alone. He wasn’t eating. Just staring down at the tray like it might bite him first.

She sat with him. Talked with him. Prayed with him.

Week after week, she kept showing up. No fanfare. Just quiet faith.

Months later, that same man stood up at a recovery meeting and said:

“That night at the shelter was supposed to be my last meal. I had made a plan. But then this teenager sat down next to me. She looked me in the eyes. She treated me like I mattered. And something in me said—‘Not yet.’”

Sarah had no idea.

She didn’t quote James 2.
She didn’t give a theological lecture on works and grace.
She just showed up—with a faith that moved.

That’s what living faith does.

It listens.
It stops.
It sees.
It stays.

Not because it’s easy. But because it’s alive.

You don’t need a stage.
You don’t need a seminary degree.
You don’t need to wait for the perfect moment.
You just need to move when love calls.

I’ll never forget a story from a university philosophy class.

Final exam. One question written on the board: “What is courage?”

Most students wrote pages—quotes from Plato, references to Aristotle, Nietzsche, footnotes for days.

But one student didn’t pick up his pen right away.

Instead, he stood up. Walked to the back of the room. Shook the hand of the janitor who had been quietly cleaning up around them all semester.

Then he sat back down and wrote one sentence: “Courage is dignity shown to someone others overlook.”

He turned in his paper and walked out.

He got the only A.

James might’ve said it this way: “Faith is love shown to someone others overlook.”

So Blue Oaks… What kind of faith will we live?

Not the kind that just agrees.
Not the kind that recites creeds or quotes Greek.
But the kind that moves.

Faith that opens its home.
Faith that walks across the street.
Faith that forgives first.
Faith that doesn’t wait for the perfect conditions to do the right thing.
Faith that gets interrupted, inconvenienced, and sometimes wounded—but keeps showing up.
Faith that says to the overlooked, the outsider, the doubter: “You matter. I’m not walking away.”

If you’re wondering where to start, you don’t need a five-year plan.

You just need a question:

Who in your life needs dignity right now?
Who have you walked past and called it ‘busy’?
What’s one small step you can take this week to let your faith breathe again?

James says: Don’t settle for a label. Don’t settle for dead faith that never leaves your mouth.

Let your belief turn into movement.
Let your trust show up in your schedule.
Let your theology walk into a shelter, a workplace, a living room.

Because in the end—Faith that doesn’t move is dead.

But faith that moves? That’s where true life begins.

And today, we come to communion to remember why any of this is possible.

We come to communion because Jesus didn’t just tell us to love the poor—he became poor for us.

He didn’t just preach forgiveness—he gave his body and poured out his blood so we could be forgiven.

He didn’t just tell us to take up our cross—he carried one up a hill and died on it for our sin.

And in doing so, he moved first.

This sacrament we’re about to share—communion—is a living, breathing reminder of a faith that moved.

The bread you’ll receive represents the body of Christ, broken for you, so that you could be made whole.

The cup represents His blood, poured out so that your sin could be forgiven and you could walk in new life.

So here’s how we’ll receive it together today:

In just a moment, when the worship team begins playing, you’re invited to exit your row to the left, come forward, and take the bread and the cup.

As you come forward, eat the bread and drink the cup right up front—a way of saying, “I’m receiving this grace now, not later.”

When you finish, there are trash cans by the servers where you can dispose of your cup, and then you can return to your seat by entering your row from the right.

And as you come…

Let it be more than a ritual.
Let it be a renewal.
Let it be a declaration:

“Jesus, I don’t want dead faith. I want faith that moves. And I can only live that out because of what you did first for me.”

So as the worship team comes to lead us—when you’re ready—come forward.

Come with humility.
Come with gratitude.
Come with the desire for a faith that doesn’t just agree… but obeys.

Let’s pray.

Jesus, thank you for your mercy.

Thank you that you didn’t just speak about love—you showed us what it looks like. You laid down your life so we could live. You took our place so we could be free.

As we come to communion today…

Would you stir our hearts again?
Would you break up the dry places in us?
Would you replace dead faith with living faith—faith that acts, that gives, that loves?

We remember your sacrifice now. And we offer ourselves back to you.

In your name we pray, Amen.