Faith, Action, and the Uneasy Place of James

Faith, Action, and the Uneasy Place of James

I question the doctrine of faith alone as it is commonly taught.

If the Bible is, as my Lutheran pastors have consistently taught, the Word of God, then all of Scripture must be taken seriously, not selectively. Yet in both modern practice and historical theology, the Book of James occupies an uneasy place—affirmed in words, but rarely engaged in action.

Pastors insist James is not ignored. Yet in over thirty years of attendance within the Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod, I cannot recall a single sermon or sustained teaching centered on it. At some point, lived experience matters. When a text is consistently absent from formation, its influence fades regardless of official statements.

This matters because James directly challenges a shallow understanding of faith. It does not deny faith; it tests whether faith exists at all.

James asks a simple question: If belief produces no action, what kind of belief is it?
His conclusion is equally simple: Faith without works is dead.

Historically, Martin Luther struggled with this text, famously calling James an “epistle of straw.” While Luther did not remove James from the canon, his discomfort reveals a genuine theological tension—particularly in light of his emphasis on justification by faith articulated in Romans. That tension was never fully resolved; instead, it was often managed by prioritization.

That prioritization has consequences.

James does not argue that works earn salvation. He argues that works reveal faith. Belief that produces no outward action is indistinguishable from belief that exists only in words. Even demons, James notes, believe—and tremble.

This is not a contradiction of faith. It is a clarification of it.

The Christian Church has wrestled with such tensions since its earliest centuries. Efforts at unity—such as the Council of Nicaea—were not born of harmony, but of deep disagreement. Political authority sought theological coherence for the sake of stability, yet division persisted. Over time, those divisions hardened into institutions, dogmas, and eventually wars—Catholic and Protestant killing one another over differing interpretations of the same Christ.

What is striking is not disagreement itself, but how often disagreement gives way to dismissal.

I recall asking a question of my pastor—openly, during a congregational setting. The question was straightforward: If the Bible is, as we are consistently taught, the Word of God, why is the Book of James never taught?

The response was not theological. It was not pastoral. It was not even dismissive in tone—only in substance.

“Reed, you think too much,” he said, and then moved on.

The moment passed quickly, but the lesson was clear. The issue was not the question itself, but the act of questioning. Inquiry was treated not as a pursuit of understanding, but as a disruption of order.

That response illustrates a broader problem. When institutions prioritize harmony over truth, questions become liabilities. Yet Christianity was never built on the absence of tension. It was built on wrestling—Scripture with Scripture, conscience with doctrine, faith with lived reality.

James unsettles because it refuses abstraction. It insists that belief must become visible. And visibility is inconvenient.

If you see someone hungry and wish them well without feeding them, James asks, what good is that?
Faith expressed only in speech is not faith completed—it is faith unfinished.

This is why action matters.

Not activism.
Not performance.
Simply presence.

Leave the woman alone.
Go kneel beside her.
Offer companionship without judgment or spectacle.

That, James would say, is faith made visible.