Things I Wish My Family Knew

As I was studying Sinclair Ferguson’s commentary on James 2:14–26—a chapter titled “Faith That Works”—I couldn’t help but be unsettled by it. I love the intellectual discourse, the theological precision, and the structure of the argument. But as I read, a nagging question kept surfacing:

Where am I in this picture?

“The person who has a deedless faith does not have true faith. He is not justified by a faith that does not express itself in righteous deeds . A false faith gives only a false salvation.”

                                                                                                Sinclair Ferguson

Is my faith without works?
Do I say I believe—and even think I believe—but live as though I don’t?
Do my actions betray my confession?

And even more troubling: Having now read what a living faith looks like, do I begin to pursue works not as the fruit of real faith, but as a counterfeit—an effort to prove or prop up what may, in fact, be a counterfeit faith?

It presses on my own soul, shining a penetrating light on places where my faith may have been silent, self-sufficient, or stagnant.
Am I blind to the needs of others?
Have I constructed a life insulated from those whose needs should command far greater attention than my wants?
Have I become calloused to the cares of the poor—not out of apathy, but out of cynicism?
Has my view of a welfare society, one that seems to breed entitlement more than opportunity, hardened my heart against the very people Christ calls me to love?

These questions and reflections drove me to prayer. What follows is both confession and plea—a poem-prayer for a faith that breathes, that moves, that serves, and that loves—not in theory, but in truth.

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Faith That Breathes
A prayer-poem inspired by James 2:14–26 and the Parable of the Sower

O Lord, I speak Your holy name,
Yet often leave my hands at rest.
I claim the crown, avoid the cross,
And fail when love becomes the test.

You gave me breath and truth and light,
But truth without love runs dry and thin.
You seek a faith that walks, not hides—
That lives, not just repeats “Amen.”

What good is faith that bears no fruit,
But seeds I cast on trampled ground?
They’re scorched by sun or choked by thorns—
No root, no growth, no harvest found.

I read Your Word and feel its weight—
The charge it speaks cuts deep and true.
A faith that breathes should not lie still…
Yet stillness marks far more than few.

O Lord, is this indictment mine?
Do I just speak and think I care?
I fear the mask, the hollow frame—
That what I call my faith is bare.

Did not my father Abraham
Show faith when tested on the hill?
Did Rahab not, though gripped with fear,
Find life through faith that dared God’s will?

Then stir in me a living trust,
That labors long and loves full well.
Let mercy guide my every step,
And grace in every action dwell.

Let not my faith be hollow words,
Or creeds that never touch the poor.
But let me feed, and clothe, and go—
And knock on every neighbor’s door.

If demons know Your name and shake,
Then may I not just nod and wait.
Let heart and hands unite in truth
To prove my love by how I act.

O make me bold in humble works,
Not to be seen or praised or paid—
But as the fruit of saving grace,
That shows my faith has not decayed.

I come, O Lord, with open hands—
Not empty, but with love made real.
Let faith and works together stand,
A faith that acts, a faith that kneels.

Yet even now I fear the fraud,
That works may mask what lies beneath—
A desperate bid to make faith look
Alive, when it may hide in grief.

So save me, Lord, from works alone,
From dead religion dressed as zeal.
Not effort, but surrendering
Will bring the change I long to feel.

It’s not my striving that will save,
But Christ alive and working through.
So let me die to every claim—
And rise, Lord Jesus, lived by You.

Amen.

In many ways, this burden reminds me of the closing scene in Saving Private Ryan, where the aged Private Ryan stands at the grave of Captain Miller, the man who gave his life to save him. With trembling voice, he says, “Every day I think about what you said to me that day on the bridge… I’ve tried to live my life the best I could. I hope that was enough.” Then he turns to his wife and pleads, “Tell me I’ve led a good life. Tell me I’m a good man.”

I understand that ache. The weight of grace received at such cost makes me ask: Have I lived in a way worthy of the One who gave everything for me? Lord, let it be so—not to earn what You freely gave, but to reflect its glory.

“…as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord…”

Iam Kerr

With assistance from ChatGPT, based on biblical texts and theological reflections inspired by the Epistle of James and the commentary of Sinclair Ferguson. The closing reflection draws inspiration from the film “Saving Private Ryan,” directed by Steven Spielberg (1998).