In the heart of this apparent theological paradox, James drops a statement that seems to shake the very foundation of Christian teaching.  In verse 24, he declares with piercing clarity: “So we see, a person is justified by what he does and not by faith alone.” At this point, an unsettling voice whispers, “Look!  The Bible contradicts itself!”  It’s a claim that, for many, seems undeniable—James versus Paul, locked in what appears to be a battle of doctrines.  James, standing firm, proclaims the necessity of deeds; Paul, in Romans, resounds that it is faith alone that justifies.

Here it is.  The grand collapse.  The unravelling of centuries of Christian belief.  Some may even conclude, “Well, that’s it then. This contradiction exposes the Bible for what it truly is—just another collection of ancient, disjointed ideas.  You can’t embrace both James and Paul. Choose your side!”

But wait.  Before you let this supposed contradiction cast a shadow over your faith, hold on.  We’re not closing the church doors just yet.  There’s more to this story than meets the eye.  Much like looking at an object with only one eye distorts your perception, so does reading Scripture from a singular perspective.  To truly understand, you need both eyes open, seeing depth where others see contradiction.

James and Paul are not opponents at war over theology—they are allies, looking at the same gospel from different angles. James isn’t naïve.  In fact, he’s almost playful here, intentionally crafting his words to sound provocative.  He’s well aware of Paul’s teachings, and one commentator even suggests James is being mischievous, deliberately stirring the pot to make you sit up and take notice.  He knows that his words might come across as jarring, but that’s the point.  He’s grabbing your attention.

Consider this: at the end of the first century, when the apostles’ writings were compiled, Romans and James were placed side by side.  Those early Christians—who understood far better the context of these teachings—didn’t bat an eye.  They didn’t see irreconcilable differences; they saw harmony.  And why?  Because the two perspectives, though different in emphasis, work together.

In Acts 15, we’re told of a critical council where both Paul and James, alongside the apostles, met to discuss this very matter.  They didn’t walk away in disarray.  They emerged united, in consensus. James knew Paul’s message: “We are justified by faith alone, apart from works.”  And yet, he turns and boldly says, “We are justified by what we do, not by faith alone.”  It’s not contradiction—it’s clarification.  James is trying to wake us up, to remind us that faith, without the life it produces, is lifeless.

James uses the word “justified” in a slightly different way than Paul does.  It’s a nuance of language, much like the word “awful” used to mean something inspiring awe, but now just means something terrible. The same root but evolved in meaning.  When James says we are justified by works, he isn’t denying that faith saves us.  Instead, he’s highlighting that the evidence of true faith is shown through action.  To Paul, justification means being made right with God through Christ.  To James, it’s proving that your faith is real, alive, and active.

In this brilliant interplay between James and Paul, we don’t find contradiction.  We find depth. We find a fuller understanding of what it means to live out our faith.

When James declares that we are justified by works, he’s not merely talking about deeds for the sake of appearances—he’s pointing to something far more profound. Our works, he says, are the very proof that we’re right with God.  And here’s the twist: Paul, the great apostle of faith, would agree. When Paul proclaims, “You’re justified by faith,” he’s saying that we are made right with God solely through the work of Christ.  No human effort can bridge that gap.  But when James counters with, “You’re justified by works, not faith alone,” he’s sounding an alarm: a mere profession of faith without real transformation, without visible evidence in your life, is not enough.

James is not undermining salvation by grace—he assumes it.  Every word in his epistle is built on the foundation of apostolic teaching, on the very doctrine that Paul fiercely defended.  To understand James, we must remember what he said earlier in the same chapter: “Christians are rich in faith and inherit the kingdom promised to those who love Him.”  A Christian is an heir—a child of God, not a labourer earning wages.  Do you see the difference?  Wages are earned; they come to you after you’ve put in the work.  But inheritance?  That’s bestowed upon you because of who you are, not because of what you’ve done.

Wages trickle in bit by bit. They’re the fruit of effort. But an inheritance is already in the bank.  It’s guaranteed.  James is clear—we’re not earning salvation; we are heirs of salvation.  He is affirming, without a shadow of doubt, that we are saved by grace.  When you become a Christian, you’re adopted into the family of God, and you become the heir of a Father whose riches are beyond imagination.  There’s no question, then—James is not teaching that we are saved by works.  What he’s saying is this: you are proven to be saved by your works.  Your deeds are the outward sign of an inward reality.  And just like that, James grabs our attention, doesn’t he?  He knows exactly what Paul said, but he also knows how to make us listen.  “You’re not justified by faith alone, but by what you do,” he says.  It jolts us awake.

But James isn’t contradicting Paul—he’s showing us how to know that we are saved.  Not how to become saved.  Not how to get right with God, but how to recognise a faith that is alive.  Do you see what James is saying over and over again?  If you claim to have faith, but there’s no fruit, your faith is dead.  It’s lifeless.  It’s not saving faith.  It’s a hollow shell of belief, devoid of the power that comes from truly knowing God.  How do you know you have a living faith?  How can you be sure that you’re right with God?

James gives us vivid examples.  He warns us of what doesn’t count as true faith.  In verse 19, he says, “You believe that there is one God. Good!  Even the demons believe that—and shudder.” With that, he paints a haunting picture.  Belief alone—mere intellectual assent—is not enough. Jonathan Edwards, in his fiery sermon, ‘True Grace Distinguished from the Experience of Devils’, put it this way:  Even demons, those ancient enemies of God, have impeccable doctrine.  They’ve attended the most exalted seminary in the universe—the throne room of God Himself.  They know who God is.  Their theology is flawless.  Yet, despite their knowledge, they are demons still.

Edwards drives the point home: doctrine alone, no matter how sound, does not save. You can have all the right answers, all the intellectual understanding, and still be no more than a demon.  And what’s more, the demons don’t just believe—they shudder. They fear God.  They respect His power.  They know His wrath.  But their fear, their trembling, doesn’t lead them to salvation.  Edwards warns that it’s possible for us to have that same kind of fear—to live moral, religious lives out of sheer terror of judgment, out of an impulse to hedge our bets against divine wrath.  But that kind of fear-driven obedience?  It’s not faith.  It’s nothing more than a spiritual insurance policy, and it qualifies you for nothing more than what the demons have: a life of trembling in the presence of a God you do not truly know.

But James doesn’t leave us in despair.  He shows us the unmistakable signs of a living faith.  A faith that is not dead but alive—one that grows, that bears fruit, that touches the world around it.  The first sign, he says, is how you respond to others, especially those in need.  In verse 14, he asks, “What good is it, my brothers, if someone claims to have faith but has no deeds?  Can such faith save him?”  Then, he paints a scenario: a brother or sister is in desperate need—lacking food, clothing, the very basics of life.  If your response is nothing more than, “Go in peace; keep warm and well-fed,” but you do nothing to meet their needs, what good is that?  Faith, without action, is dead.

James is saying that a living faith is one that is alive to the needs of others.  It’s not about earning points with God.  It’s about a heart that has been so transformed by grace that it cannot help but overflow in love and compassion.  True faith doesn’t merely sit back and say the right things; it gets up and does the right things.  It reaches out to the broken, the hurting, the hungry, and the poor.

This is the living faith James speaks of—the kind of faith that doesn’t just talk, but acts. The kind of faith that doesn’t just believe, but lives.  This is how you know you’re right with God—not through a lifeless profession of belief, but through a faith that breathes, grows, and transforms.

Imagine standing at the edge of a great precipice, peering into the depth of your soul. You say, “There’s so much to do for the poor at Christmas.”  You think, “I must do something, or perhaps I’m not truly a Christian.”  Stop!  Pause for a moment.  Don’t rush to the bulletin board or scramble to join a committee, thinking that your salvation depends on it.  James is clear – faith without works is dead, but beware!  All your rushing to act, all your charity, could simply be a heart quivering in fear, merely shuddering at the thought of punishment, not transformed by love.

James asks us to look deeper.  He says, “If your faith lacks compassion for the poor, it’s dead.”  But what does that really mean?  What is the opposite of dead?  What is the opposite of fear?  It’s not courage—it’s love.  Faith that simply shudders, faith that is born out of dread, isn’t real faith at all.  True faith is alive, not by obligation or fear, but through love, a love that awakens when you encounter the broken, the marginalised, the wounded, and the outcast.

James insists that if your faith is alive, the presence of the poor will ignite something within you.  It’s not a mechanical response, not a checklist of good deeds, but something organic, a principle rooted deep within your soul.  When you realise, “I was once homeless, naked, and destitute before God, but He clothed me, saved me, and called me His own,” then when you meet someone who is homeless or lost, you will see yourself.  Your faith will recognise the grace that was given to you, and that grace will flow out of you toward others.

But let me warn you—if you find yourself indifferent to those who are suffering, if you scorn those who are different from you, if you remain unmoved, James declares that you may say you believe in grace, but you don’t.  You may recite the hymns and profess your salvation, but if your heart isn’t moved to love, then your faith is a hollow echo, devoid of life.

James points to Rahab, a woman who risked everything, hiding the Israelite spies in an act of courage.  Why?  Because she believed in their God.  Her faith wasn’t passive—it was active, bold, and alive.  This is the kind of faith James calls us to, a faith that moves beyond mere belief and into action, rooted in a deep trust that God’s grace is enough.

And then, James gives us the ultimate example—Abraham, a man asked to sacrifice his only son, Isaac.  There’s no law that says, “Sacrifice your son,” no commandment that demands such a terrible act.  But Abraham raised the dagger, ready to obey, because his love for God was greater than his fear.  In that moment, God stopped him, saying, “Now I know you love me, for you did not withhold your son from me.”  Abraham’s faith was proven not through law, but through love.

Do you see the depth of what James is saying?  God didn’t want Abraham’s obedience for the sake of obedience; He wanted his heart.  God desires friendship, a love that transcends rules, a relationship that says, “I trust you, no matter the cost.”  This is the essence of living faith, a faith that responds not out of duty, but out of a burning desire to be close to the One who gave everything for you.

Picture it—God the Father, walking up another mountain, this time with His own Son. And unlike Abraham, He didn’t hold back.  He went through with the sacrifice. Jesus, the beloved Son, was not spared. Why? So you could know, beyond any doubt, that you are loved.  That’s living faith.  It’s the heart that looks at the cross and says, “Now I know you love me, for you did not withhold your Son from me.”

Does that truth stir your soul?  Does it ignite something deep within you?  Does it awaken a desire to love Him, not out of fear, but out of a longing for His friendship?  That, my friend, is living faith. Not a checklist of good deeds, not a life of moral duty, but a heart that beats in rhythm with God’s own heart.  That’s the faith James calls us to.  Do you have it?

Let us pray.