Faith That Walks

 

Before We Begin

Imagine growing up with Yeshua under the same roof. Sharing meals. Watching Him work. Hearing Him speak, day after day, not from a scroll but from the heart of Heaven. That was James—Yaakov in Hebrew—the brother of our Messiah. He didn’t always believe. In fact, the Gospels say he doubted, even resisted, teasing Yeshua when they were younger. But something changed after the resurrection. Something turned doubt into bold devotion, and silence into a voice that roared through Jerusalem with the call to live what we say we believe.

James didn’t write to impress. He wrote to awaken. Every word in this letter bears the weight of someone who walked beside Yeshua, then learned to walk after Him. Not in theory. In real life. In trials. In poverty. In persecution. In everyday choices.

This isn’t a book of advice. It’s a call to action from someone who came late to faith—and then never looked back. THIS is from Jesus' own half blood Brother!

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The letter of James has a way of getting under our skin, doesn’t it? It doesn’t let us hide behind fancy words or religious titles. It doesn’t give us a place to sit back and say, “I believe,” while refusing to move our feet. No, James is a book that walks up to us, looks us in the eye, and says, “Show me - prove it.” And it’s not asking us to put on a performance. It’s calling something deep out of us—something real, something true, something lived.

When James speaks about faith, he ties it straight to action. Not just ideas or warm feelings or belief in the abstract—but action that can be seen, touched, and experienced by the people around us. And the word that shows up again and again in this letter is ergon—ἔργον in the Greek. That word means “work,” yes, but not like a list of duties to check off. It carries the sense of effort, labor, deed, even enterprise. It can describe the kind of labor that builds a home or feeds the hungry or heals the broken. It’s a doing word—not just what we do with our hands, but what flows out of a heart that’s been genuinely and perfectly touched by faith.

And James doesn’t come up with this idea in a vacuum. He’s speaking as a Jewish believer in Yeshua, fully immersed in the Torah, in the Prophets, in the sacred traditions of his people. He’s not inventing something new—he’s calling us back to what was always true. Real faith was always meant to be lived.

The Hebrew root that ties into this same idea is ma‘aseh (מַעֲשֶׂה)—the word for deed, action, or accomplishment. It’s used all through the Tanakh. It describes the “works” of God in creation. It describes the mighty deeds He did to rescue His people. And it’s used when talking about the obedience and righteousness expected from the children of Israel—not just inward belief, but faithful doing.

Even in Deuteronomy, when the people are called to shema—hear—the hearing is never passive. That word shema (שָׁמַע) means to hear and to obey. You don’t really hear God if you’re not obeying Him. The hearing and the doing are one.

And James, as a man raised in that tradition, a servant of HaShem and a brother of Yeshua, is crying out to believers who were getting comfortable with a kind of faith that didn’t require anything of them. Maybe they had the right theology, maybe they could recite the right verses, maybe they talked a lot about grace—but they were treating faith like a possession, not a living force. And James tells them plainly: faith without ergon is dead. Not bruised. Not sleeping. Dead. νεκρὰ (nekra)—lifeless.

He doesn’t say this to be cruel. He says it because he knows that real faith doesn’t sit still. It breathes. It moves. It steps into dark places and brings light. It picks up the wounded. It speaks truth with love. It doesn’t just say, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled.” It feeds. It clothes. It loves in real, gritty, inconvenient, beautiful ways.

And he brings up Abraham—not because Abraham was saved by works, but because his faith was completed by his works. The Greek word there is eteleiōthē (ἐτελειώθη)—it means made perfect, brought to its intended goal. In other words, the faith that was already in Abraham’s heart bore fruit in what he did. He believed God, and then he acted on that belief.

Rahab is mentioned too—a woman with a complicated past, a Gentile, someone who had no standing in the religious world. But when faith stirred in her heart, it didn’t stay quiet. She risked her life to protect those spies. She chose to act, and that action was counted as righteousness. Her ergon testified to the truth of what had taken root in her soul. That God IS God, and there is no other.

James isn’t preaching a gospel of works. He’s preaching a gospel that works. A gospel that moves through our limbs and our lips and our decisions and our priorities. A gospel that doesn’t wait for a platform or an audience. It just does the next right thing, in love, for the glory of God.

And isn’t that exactly what Yeshua did? He didn’t come to earth to write a book or argue theology with the scholars—though He could’ve done that brilliantly. He came to do the will of the Father. And He said, “If you love Me, you will keep My commandments.” Not out of fear, not out of legalism, but out of love. And love, real love, is never idle.

The early believers didn’t have flashy churches or big budgets. Many of them were poor. Many were persecuted. But their faith was known because of what they did. They cared for orphans and widows. They shared their food. They prayed without ceasing. They lived with open hands. They forgave. They healed. They lived the words they spoke. And because of that, the world around them had to take notice.

Faith in action is not about trying to earn God’s love. It’s the natural overflow of having received it. When we know we’ve been forgiven, we forgive. When we know we’ve been set free, we help others find that freedom. When we’ve tasted grace, we extend it to those who haven’t yet.

But faith without ergon—faith that sits on the couch and watches the world fall apart without lifting a finger—is no faith at all. And James pulls no punches in saying that.

It’s a hard word, but it’s a good one. Because if the Spirit of God lives in us, He won’t let us sit idle. He’ll stir us up. He’ll call us out. He’ll lead us into places where love is needed, where truth must be spoken, where mercy must take shape in hands and feet.

And that’s the invitation for us today—not just to have faith, but to live it. To wake up each morning and say, “What does faith look like today, right here, right now?” Sometimes it looks like a kind word. Sometimes it looks like standing up for what’s right. Sometimes it looks like sacrifice. Sometimes it looks like silence. But it will always look like Yeshua. Because He is our faith, and He is our example.

If our faith is real, it will move us. It will shape us. And it will leave a trail of ergon—not for our glory, but for His.

And it’s not just James standing up and saying this. Yeshua Himself—our Master, our Rabbi, our Redeemer—spoke it, over and over, in the clearest terms possible. He didn't leave the meaning of faith up in the clouds. He brought it down into dirt and sweat and choice. He told stories—parables—that put skin on what it meant to live a life pleasing to HaShem.

One of the first that comes to mind is the parable of the two builders. It’s in Luke 6:46–49 and Matthew 7:24–27, and it’s not hard to picture. Two men build houses—one on rock, the other on sand. Both of them heard the words of Yeshua. But only one of them did what He said. The storms came, and the house on the rock stood firm while the other collapsed.

Yeshua said the wise man is the one who does His words—not just hears them. That word “do” is the Greek poiéō (ποιέω), which means to make, to create, to bring something into action. It’s not passive. It’s not theory. It’s rolling up your sleeves and living what you say you believe. He even opens that parable with a piercing question—“Why do you call Me ‘Lord, Lord,’ and not do what I say?” That’s the same heart James echoes when he says, “Be doers of the Word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves.” That word “deceiving” there in James 1:22 is paralogizomai (παραλογίζομαι)—it means to reason falsely, to cheat oneself with illusion. That’s what happens when we hear the truth and refuse to act on it—we deceive ourselves.

And what about the parable of the ten virgins in Matthew 25? All ten had lamps. All ten were waiting for the bridegroom. But only five were wise enough to prepare—bringing oil, watching for His arrival, keeping their hearts and lamps ready. The others? They had the outward signs, but no readiness. They were caught empty, unprepared when it mattered most. And the door was shut. That oil they lacked wasn’t just some symbolic item—it pointed to the lived readiness of faith. The kind of faith that doesn't just sit and wait passively but tends to its light. Keeps awake. Stays faithful in the quiet hours. Does something about the promise it believes.

Even the parable of the talents brings it straight home. Three servants are given resources—“talents” was a unit of weight, a measure of value. Two invest. One buries. And it wasn’t fear that excused the inaction. The Master called it wickedness and laziness. That Greek word for “lazy” is oknēros (ὀκνηρός)—sluggish, shrinking back from action. That servant had what looked like belief, but his life didn’t show it. He thought he knew the Master’s character, but he didn't live in step with it. The others, though—they did something. They engaged, they moved, they bore fruit. And they were welcomed into joy.

Then there’s the fig tree. Yeshua was hungry and saw a tree with leaves. It looked alive. But it had no fruit. And He cursed it—not out of frustration or spite, but as a sign. A tree that promises fruit and bears none is fit only to wither. And we’re reminded again that a tree is known by its fruit. You don’t gather grapes from thorn bushes. You don’t pick figs from thistles. If the life of God is truly in us, fruit will follow. The Hebrew prophets knew this well—Isaiah 5 paints the vineyard of the Lord, how He dug it, cleared it, planted it, loved it—and yet it brought forth wild grapes. Sour fruit. It didn’t live up to the care poured into it. And judgment followed.

James wasn’t just inspired by Yeshua’s words—he was echoing them. The epistle of James is like the Sermon on the Mount with sandals on. It walks. It moves. It gets dirt under its nails.

And we have to admit something: it’s possible to be religious on the outside and hollow within. It’s possible to attend every service, sing every song, quote every verse—and still never yield one real work of faith. That’s a hard truth. But better to face it now than to hear the words “I never knew you” later. That word “knew” in Matthew 7:23—ginōskō (γινώσκω)—it’s not about facts. It’s intimate. It’s relational. He’s saying, “We didn’t walk together. You didn’t follow Me.” And the ones He says it to? They did works—but they weren’t His works. They weren’t born of obedience. That’s what makes the difference.

Because ergon, the works that matter, aren’t about earning. They’re about alignment. They flow from knowing Him and doing His will. Not our own agenda dressed up in religious language, but His heart made manifest in our lives. Like Yeshua said in John 15, “Apart from Me, you can do nothing.” That Greek word is ouden (οὐδέν)—literally “not one thing.” We can’t produce fruit unless we’re abiding in Him. But if we are? If we remain in Him, rooted and real? Then there will be ergon—works of love, works of mercy, works of truth.

Paul said it too, in Ephesians 2:8–10. Yes, we’re saved by grace through faith—not by works so no one can boast. But he doesn’t stop there. He says we are His workmanship—poiēma (ποίημα), like a crafted poem or sculpture—created in Messiah Yeshua for good works, which God prepared beforehand. The Greek word there again? Ergon. The works are the fruit, not the root, of salvation. They’re not the reason we’re saved—but they’re absolutely the reason we were called.

So what does that mean, day by day? It means when we believe Yeshua is the way, we walk in that way. When we trust His words, we pattern our lives after them. We don’t just say we love—we forgive, we serve, we listen, we give. We don’t just say He’s our Lord—we obey. We let His Spirit shape our priorities, our relationships, our finances, our time, our tongue. We don’t perform to be seen. We live to be faithful.

And when we fall short—and we will—we don’t quit. We return. We repent. And we keep walking. Because faith isn’t about having it all together. It’s about continuing to follow. It’s about letting our belief show up in the real and the raw and the small and the unseen. Even a cup of cold water, given in His name, doesn’t go unnoticed.

That’s why James says the religion that is pure and undefiled is to visit the orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep ourselves unstained by the world. Not because that earns us anything, but because that is what real faith does. It sees the hurting. It steps in. It keeps clean hands and a pure heart—not by isolation, but by devotion. That’s ergon born of love.

And I think, more than ever, the world needs to see that kind of faith. Not noisy faith. Not political faith. Not showy faith. But true faith. Faith with skin on. Faith that feeds and forgives and welcomes and walks humbly with God. A faith that doesn’t have to announce itself because it’s already visible in everything we do.

When Yeshua returns, He won’t be checking our doctrinal statements. He’ll be looking for faith on the earth—the kind that works through love, the kind that left a trail of holy ergon behind it. Not perfect, but real. Alive. Moving.

May that be the faith we walk in. The faith that does.

 

 

Image is chatgpt generated as per my instructions. Teaching is mine with ai help on language research.