Apostles Anglican Church
Fr. John A. Roop

The Epistle of St. James: Christian Living 101
Chapter 2: Faith and Works

The Lord be with you.
And with your spirit.
Let us pray.

Proper 1

O God, the strength of all who put their trust in you: Mercifully accept our prayers, and because, through the weakness of our mortal nature, we can do no good thing without you, grant us the help of your grace to keep your commandments, that we may please you in will and deed; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen (BCP 2019, p. 615).

Introduction

You are likely familiar with the Broadway musical and later the film Fiddler On The Roof. It is set in The Pale of Settlement in Russia (modern day Ukraine) in or around 1905, a Jewish community under increasing threat from the authorities. It is about changing times and traditions. Wikipedia offers this brief synopsis:

The story centers on Tevye, a milkman in the village of Anatevka, who attempts to maintain his Jewish religious and cultural traditions as outside influences encroach upon his family’s lives. He must cope with the strong-willed actions of his three older daughters who wish to marry for love; their choices of husbands are successively less palatable for Tevye (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fiddler_on_the_Roof).

His daughters’ choices force Teyve to think about marriage and love in ways he hasn’t before. In one scene he has a musical conversation with his wife Golde:

(Tevye)

“Golde, I have decided to give Perchik permission to become engaged to our daughter, Hodel.”

(Golde)

“What??? He’s poor! He has nothing, absolutely nothing!”

(Tevye)

“He’s a good man, Golde.

I like him. And what’s more important, Hodel likes him. Hodel loves him.

So what can we do?

It’s a new world… A new world. Love. Golde…”

Do you love me?

(Golde)

Do I what?

(Tevye)

Do you love me?

(Golde)

Do I love you?

With our daughters getting married

And this trouble in the town

You’re upset, you’re worn out

Go inside, go lie down!

Maybe it’s indigestion

(Tevye)

“Golde I’m asking you a question…”

Do you love me?

(Golde)

You’re a fool

(Tevye)

“I know…”

But do you love me?

(Golde)

Do I love you?

For twenty-five years I’ve washed your clothes

Cooked your meals, cleaned your house

Given you children, milked your cow

After twenty-five years, why talk about love right now?

(Tevye)

Golde, The first time I met you

Was on our wedding day

I was scared

(Golde)

I was shy

(Tevye)

I was nervous

(Golde)

So was I

(Tevye)

But my father and my mother

Said we’d learn to love each other

And now I’m asking, Golde

Do you love me?

(Golde)

I’m your wife

(Tevye)

“I know…”

But do you love me?

(Golde)

Do I love him?

For twenty-five years I’ve lived with him

Fought with him, starved with him

Twenty-five years my bed is his

If that’s not love, what is

(Tevye)

Then you love me?

(Golde)

I suppose I do

(Tevye)

And I suppose I love you too

(Both)

It doesn’t change a thing

But even so

After twenty-five years

It’s nice to know

source: https://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/f/fiddlerontherooflyrics/doyoulovemelyrics.html

Clare and I have been married forty-seven years and, like most married couples, we’ve had conversations like this where we are talking past each other. It also sounds like many of Jesus’s conversations in the Gospel of John. Tevye is asking about one thing and Golde is answering about another.

When Tevye asks, “Do you love me?” What does he have in mind?

It seems he is thinking not like his fathers before him, not according to the Tradition, but instead like his daughters. “Golde, do you look at me, do you feel about me, the way Hodel does about Perchik?” Do you love me like that?

But, Golde has another understanding of love entirely. What does she mean by it? How does she answer Tevye? She provides evidence of her love: cooking, cleaning, working together, raising children together, sharing life together.

This song, this conversation, really captures the crux of the play; the earth is shifting under the characters’ feet, the Tradition is giving way to modernity, and they are struggling to cope. Tevye is coming to believe — maybe — that love is something you feel, while Golde still believes — maybe — that love is something you do. So, I ask you, who is right, Tevye or Golde? Is love primarily a set of feelings or a set of actions? Suppose someone claimed to love his spouse — to have deep feelings for her — but exhibited none of the behaviors associated with love. Would you consider that love genuine?

Now, let’s extend this discussion to things religious. When someone says, “I love Jesus,” what does that mean? Is it primarily a claim about feelings or about behaviors?

Perhaps we can let Jesus define what it means to love him?

John 14:15–24 (ESV): 15 “If you love me, you will keep my commandments. 16 And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, 17 even the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, for he dwells with you and will be in you. 18 “I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you. 19 Yet a little while and the world will see me no more, but you will see me. Because I live, you also will live. 20 In that day you will know that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you. 21 Whoever has my commandments and keeps them, he it is who loves me. And he who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him and manifest myself to him.” 22 Judas (not Iscariot) said to him, “Lord, how is it that you will manifest yourself to us, and not to the world?” 23 Jesus answered him, “If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him. 24 Whoever does not love me does not keep my words. And the word that you hear is not mine but the Father’s who sent me.

Is this clear? It certainly is logically, that is, the logical meaning of the conditional statements is clear.

“If you love me, you will keep my commandments” is logically equivalent to “If you do not keep my commandments, you do not love me.”

Now, to be fair, nothing is mentioned about feelings in these verses, so we cannot say from this passage how feelings relate to love, if at all, but we can say this with a certainty that comes from Jesus himself: If someone claims to love him and does not keep his commandments, the claim of love is false. The evidence of love is obedience. I would even dare to say that the essence of our love for Jesus is obedience. Love is not what we feel, but what we do. It is wonderful when feelings come as a gift from God, but they are not necessary nor may we demand or expect them. For the majority of her life, Mother Teresa lived totally devoid of such feelings, yet her life of obedience was a sure testament to her love.

Now, with this understanding that what we do matters very much in our life of faith, we turn to our text for today, James 2.

The Sin of Partiality (James 2:1-13)

Scripture — both Old and New Testaments — and the Great Tradition have much to say about the dangers of wealth, about God’s special concern for the poor, and about the Christian obligation of those with resources to care for those in need. It is not without significance that Jesus was born into what we might call a working poor family, that God dignified the poor by taking their condition upon himself. It is probably also not without significance that the rich and powerful of the world — the Magi — shared their wealth with that poor family as an act of worship. This is the pattern that the Church is to follow: care for the poor is an act of worship.

This passage in James also deals with rich and poor, but from a different slant; it is not primarily about generosity, but about partiality.

We do not know the composition of the churches to which James wrote, but the early congregations were very often mongrel groups; certainly Paul’s churches were: Jews and Greeks, slaves and free, men and women, rich and poor together. I would suspect that the early church was far more heterogeneous than the modern church. And we do know that the early church attracted many from the margins of society. I suspect that the “average” congregation was below average socio-economically.

What would be the likely response if a rich man — gold ring, fine clothes — showed up for Sunday meeting? I suspect he would be warmly welcomed, treated deferentially and preferentially.

Now, suppose that minutes later a poor man comes in: no Rolex, no Armani suit, just some not-so-clean work clothes with perhaps a bit of pungency about them. How might he be greeted by comparison?

This is the scenario that James envisions:

James 2:1–7 (ESV): 2 My brothers, show no partiality as you hold the faith in our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of glory. 2 For if a man wearing a gold ring and fine clothing comes into your assembly, and a poor man in shabby clothing also comes in, 3 and if you pay attention to the one who wears the fine clothing and say, “You sit here in a good place,” while you say to the poor man, “You stand over there,” or, “Sit down at my feet,” 4 have you not then made distinctions among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts? 5 Listen, my beloved brothers, has not God chosen those who are poor in the world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom, which he has promised to those who love him? 6 But you have dishonored the poor man. Are not the rich the ones who oppress you, and the ones who drag you into court? 7 Are they not the ones who blaspheme the honorable name by which you were called?

James marshals two different lines of argument against this type of partiality: one “religious” and one “logical/practical.”

What is the religious argument? Making distinctions between the rich and poor, valuing one more highly than the other, is an act of judgment and betrays evil thoughts. Let’s deal with the evil thoughts first. What type of evil thoughts might be involved in partiality toward the rich man? Certainly envy and pride are suspect, the desire to have more or even just to be associated with those who do. I can imagine a certain avarice as well; this rich man might be able to do something for me or for us. And, of course, the act of judgment itself — deciding who is worthy and who is not — is reserved for the Lord. Human judgments of this type are inherently sinful not least because they usurp the divine prerogative. It is a common theme throughout Scripture that God’s choices run counter to human expectations: Isaac and not Ismael, Jacob and not Esau, David and none of his brothers, Solomon and not his elder brothers, and so on. And that is the second part of the religious argument. God has already chosen, and he has not shown a preference for the rich. To the contrary, “God [has] chosen the poor in this world to be rich in faith and [to be] heirs of the kingdom” (James 2:5). It is telling, I think, that one of the three traditional monastic vows is Gospel poverty, the renunciation not just of wealth but of private possessions. The monks, and the saints, know that “stuff” gets in the way of faith, or at least has the strong potential to do. The rich, it seems, are actually disadvantaged in matters of faith.

We’ve dealt with evil thought related to the rich. Are there any evil thoughts regarding the poor? The poor are just so needy; they are a drain on time and energy and resources and we are stretched so thinly already. How can we meet yet another set of needs? To which Jesus might well answer, “How many fish do you have? Bring them to me.”

I would like to show a better way to think of the poor, exemplified in the life of Deacon-Martyr St. Lawrence. This synopsis comes from Word on Fire Ministries:

Persecution was a daily reality for third-century Christians in Rome. And in 258, the Emperor Valerian began another massive round. He issued an edict commanding that all bishops, priests, and deacons should be put to death, and he gave the Imperial treasury power to confiscate all money and possessions from Christians.

In light of the news, Pope Sixtus II quickly ordained a young Spanish theologian, Lawrence, to become archdeacon of Rome. The important position put Lawrence in charge of the Church’s riches, and it gave him responsibility for the Church’s outreach to the poor. The pope sensed his own days were numbered and therefore commissioned Lawrence to protect the Church’s treasure.

On August 6, 258, Valerian captured Pope Sixtus while he celebrated the liturgy, and had him beheaded. Afterwards, he set his sights on the pope’s young protégé, Lawrence. But before killing him, the Emperor demanded the archdeacon turn over all the riches of the Church. He gave Lawrence three days to round it up.

Lawrence worked swiftly. He sold the Church’s vessels and gave the money to widows and the sick. He distributed all the Church’s property to the poor. On the third day, the Emperor summoned Lawrence to his palace and asked for the treasure. With great aplomb, Lawrence entered the palace, stopped, and then gestured back to the door where, streaming in behind him, poured crowds of poor, crippled, blind, and suffering people. “These are the true treasures of the Church,” he boldly proclaimed. One early account even has him adding, “The Church is truly rich, far richer than the Emperor,”

(https://www.wordonfire.org/articles/st-lawrence-and-the-true-treasures-of-the-church/).

It has been said that the poor need the rich for their welfare, but the rich need the poor for their salvation. That’s the way the Church thinks of the poor: as true riches and salvation.

Now, James moves on to a “logical/practical” reason not to show partiality to the rich. What is the problem with the rich? They are often the very ones who are hostile to the faith and to the church. And they have civic power to do harm: to oppress you, to drag you into court, to blaspheme the name of Jesus with apparent impunity. Why would you want to preferentially honor those who, as a group, are most likely to dishonor the Lord? When you honor the rich you may well be welcoming a Trojan horse into the assembly.

We noted in the introduction to this epistle that James was likely writing primarily to Jewish congregations scattered throughout the empire. And, we know that James was an observant Jew, highly regarded for his traditional piety. So, it makes sense that he would appeal to the Law in his argument against partiality.

James 2:8–13 (ESV): 8 If you really fulfill the royal law according to the Scripture, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” you are doing well. 9 But if you show partiality, you are committing sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors. 10 For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become guilty of all of it. 11 For he who said, “Do not commit adultery,” also said, “Do not murder.” If you do not commit adultery but do murder, you have become a transgressor of the law. 12 So speak and so act as those who are to be judged under the law of liberty. 13 For judgment is without mercy to one who has shown no mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgment.

The commandment to love one’s neighbor as oneself did not originate with Jesus; it is God’s command in Leviticus 19:18, the central social ethic in the Mosaic Law. Showing partiality is a violation of that Law. But some of James’ readers might be tempted to argue: surely, partiality is not as serious as adultery or murder, is it? In one way, certainly not. But the point James makes is that any willful violation of any aspect of God’s law makes one a lawbreaker; it violates the relationships between oneself and one’s neighbor and between oneself and God. In that sense partiality is just as serious as adultery and murder because it reveals a problem with the heart, a problem with rebellion against God. In that case, the Law which was intended to set us free for right worship and love — a law of liberty — becomes a judgment against us. The way to avoid that judgment is to show mercy, that is, to show no partiality. What we do matters; love is shown by our actions. And then James extends this notion; it is not only love that is manifest in action.

Faith Without Works Is Dead (James 2:14-26)

Earlier we asked whether love is primarily a matter of feelings or a matter of actions. I argued — and I think James does also — that love is a matter of action; love is defined not necessarily by what we feel, but by what we do. Thomas Aquinas defined love as “willing the good of the other.” James would go a bit further, I think: Love is acting for the good of the other as one is able.

So much for love. What about faith? What is the essence of faith: is it feelings or belief or something more?

James 2:14–17 (ESV): 14 What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? 15 If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, 16 and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? 17 So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.

James is making an argument by comparison, again based upon how a brother treats a poor man. Consider things from the poor man’s perspective. Someone who claims to have faith wishes him well, blesses him in the name of the Lord, but does nothing tangible to help. That kind of faith is just empty words as far as the poor man is concerned. Likewise, James says, it is also empty for the brother; if it is faith at all, it is no longer living faith. It benefits no one.

James envisions some pushback to his conviction:

James 2:18–26 (ESV): 18 But someone will say, “You have faith and I have works.” Show me your faith apart from your works, and I will show you my faith by my works. 19 You believe that God is one; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder! 20 Do you want to be shown, you foolish person, that faith apart from works is useless? 21 Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered up his son Isaac on the altar? 22 You see that faith was active along with his works, and faith was completed by his works; 23 and the Scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness”—and he was called a friend of God. 24 You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone. 25 And in the same way was not also Rahab the prostitute justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out by another way? 26 For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead.

So, what is the argument James envisions? He sees someone proposing that faith and works are two separate avenues for loving God and neighbor. Faith is my way, works is yours; you do you, and I’ll do me and God will be equally satisfied with both of us. But James isn’t having it.

First, he says that works are the evidence, the proof of faith (James 2:18); you really can’t demonstrate faith apart from the actions it inspires. And then, to show how foolish it is to try to elevate faith alone as a viable alternative, he notes that the demons have faith alone: well, almost alone; they add the work of shuddering to their faith. As an aside, the ESV — and many other translations — make a curious switch in language here to accommodate the limitations of English. Notice that between verses 18 and 19 James appears to switch from talking about faith to talking about belief. Is he making a distinction between faith and belief? No. There is no such distinction in the Greek text; the same root word is used in both cases. In verse 18 the word is used as a noun; in verse 19 it is used as a verb. In English we do not have a verb form of faith; we don’t say, “I faith in Jesus.” So, to accommodate that limitation in English the translators have used “believe” as the verb equivalent of “faith.” But there has been no change in meaning. James is either always talking about belief or he is always talking about faith, but he makes no distinction between the two. James is saying that the demons have the same kind of faith that you do unless your faith results in works. In other words, without works your faith is no better than the demons’ faith.

Second, using the example of Abraham’s offering of Isaac, James says that works bring faith to completion (James 2:22). This may be the most helpful way of thinking about this whole issue. Let me borrow the language of Philip Melanchton, contemporary of Martin Luther, to explain. Luther spoke of the need for fides viva, a living or vital faith. Melanchton further defined fides viva as comprised of notitia, assensus, and fiducia.

Notitia is an understanding of the content of faith. I have a clear notion of what is being claimed. For example, I know what Paul means when he says, “Jesus is Lord.”

Assensus is an agreement that what is being claimed is actually true, a giving of one’s assent to the claim. Yes, I understand what it means to say, “Jesus is Lord,” and I believe that is true.

Fiducia is being faithful to what you believe; it is a trust sufficient to allow you to live in accordance with the truth. Yes, I understand what it means to say, “Jesus is Lord.” I believe that to be true. And now I will live a life of obedience to Jesus.

These three are required for faith to be complete (living): understanding, acceptance, and action. James argues that without fiducia, without the works that complete faith, one’s faith is dead. So there is no inherent contradiction between St. Paul insisting that one is saved by grace through faith apart from the works of the Law (by which he means the Mosaic Law) and James saying faith without works is dead. Paul certainly agrees that true faith will necessarily result in works that demonstrate it.

So, we are back where we started this discussion: what we do matters. It is the evidence and completion of what we say we feel or believe internally. How do we actually know we love Jesus? We keep his commandments. How do we — or anyone else — know that we have saving faith? By the works that result from it.

Conclusion

Let me conclude with a story, perhaps apocryphal, but a good illustration nonetheless. Charles Blondin was a French tightrope walker and acrobat famous for his exploits in the mid nineteenth century. He came to America in 1855 and made a name for himself by crossing the Niagra River Gorge between the U.S. and Canada on a tightrope. As the story goes, he put on quite the show. He would ask the audience before he ever stepped onto the wire, “Who thinks I can walk across this river?” There were always applause and shouts of “Yes!” Notitia and assensus: the crowd understood and accepted his implied claim as true. Then after he completed that first walk, he said, “I can cross the wire pushing a wheelbarrow. Do you think I can do it?” Again, applause and affirmative shouts: notitia and assensus. Then, after he completed that walk he said, “I can even cross the wire pushing the wheelbarrow with a person riding in it. Do you think I can do it?” Yet again, applause and shouts of “Yes!” And here, Blondin paused and said, “Then who will volunteer to get in the wheelbarrow?” There were no takers: notitia, assensus, but no fiducia — faith, up to a point, but no works. Just dead faith, as James might say.

So, the question for me — maybe it’s for you, too — is where and how is God asking me to get into the wheelbarrow?