Written by Dr. Kiefer Likens, Th.D.
Let’s talk about salvation—or rather, the circus the modern church has made of it.
Picture it: dim lights, soft music, a tear-jerking testimony on screen, and a pastor with just enough product in his hair to be taken seriously. He steps up to the mic and says, “If you’d like to give your heart to Jesus tonight…” as if Christ is backstage wringing His hands, hoping you’ll accept His friend request.
This is what passes for evangelism in far too many churches today. We’ve taken the most glorious act of divine intervention the universe has ever seen—and turned it into a sales pitch. Jesus becomes a needy boyfriend, and salvation becomes a sentimental decision made under emotional duress and keyboard synths.
Here’s the problem: the Bible doesn’t talk like this. It doesn’t describe salvation as a partnership, a negotiation, or a contract. It doesn’t hinge on your sincerity or your timing. The Bible presents salvation as a sovereign act of God from start to finish—a rescue mission carried out by the King of glory upon the corpse of a rebel.
Theologians have a name for this divine rescue plan: the ordo salutis—the “order of salvation.” It’s not just an academic flowchart; it’s the theological skeleton beneath the flesh of your testimony. It answers the question, “How does God save a sinner?” Not, “How does a sinner decide to be saved?”
And that’s a big distinction.
Because when you reverse the order, you don’t just confuse things—you create an entirely different gospel. A gospel where man initiates, God responds, and grace becomes a polite suggestion rather than a sovereign thunderclap that raises the dead.
In this blog, we’re going to:
So buckle up. This won’t be gentle.
Because salvation isn’t your decision. It’s God’s invasion.
Ah, Methodism—the theological equivalent of lukewarm coffee. Not quite Rome, not quite Geneva. John Wesley gave us a movement built on holiness and revival fire, but when it comes to salvation, the whole system wobbles like a Jenga tower made of wet graham crackers.
Let’s talk prevenient grace—that magical, mysterious something that supposedly makes everyone just able enough to choose Jesus. According to Wesleyan theology, you’re not really dead in your sin. You’re just… severely injured. Like someone in a spiritual coma who needs a little divine smelling salt to wake up and grab the IV drip of faith.
This is theological fantasy land. The Bible says you’re dead—not “sluggish,” not “emotionally distant,” but spiritually flatlined (Eph. 2:1). A dead man doesn’t respond to CPR with a high five. He gets raised.
Wesleyans want to have their monergism and synergize it too. They’ll say, “Well yes, God begins the work with prevenient grace… but man must respond.” Translation: God cracks the door open and waits on you to walk through. As if the Creator of the universe is standing there with His hat in hand, saying, “Pretty please?”
Here’s what that really is: works-based salvation wearing a grace-colored hoodie. Because if your response is the deciding factor, grace isn’t sovereign. It’s a suggestion.
Romans 3:11 lays the axe to the root of this entire system: “No one seeks for God.” Not unless God makes them seek. Not unless God regenerates the heart first. The Wesleyan model takes that dead heart, gives it a Gatorade and a pat on the back, and tells it to sprint to the Savior. No. That’s not revival. That’s spiritual delusion.
This is what happens when you let emotionalism write your theology. You get a salvation that feels fair, inclusive, and cooperative—but is ultimately powerless. It can’t save anyone. It can only offer a potential salvation, contingent on the very thing Scripture says you don’t have: the will to choose God.
And let’s not ignore the deeper irony. The same Methodists who preach “choose this day” revivalism are often the ones ordaining women, affirming all sorts of modern sins, and turning church into a TED talk with hymns. It’s the natural result of a theology that makes man the final authority.
So yes, the Wesleyan ordo salutis is not a soft theological error—it’s a serious departure from the gospel of grace. And the longer we let it masquerade as biblical truth, the more we confuse people into thinking God is waiting on them to decide their own resurrection.
Spoiler alert: He’s not. He never was.
Let’s give credit where it’s due: Martin Luther lit the match that burned down the Roman system of works-righteousness. He gave us sola fide, sola gratia, and an unflinching defense of justification by faith alone. Awesome. Applause. A theological mic drop.
But here’s the thing: the fire didn’t finish the job. Because while Luther got the doctrine of justification right, the Lutheran ordo salutis takes a sharp left turn when it comes to regeneration and baptism—and suddenly the gospel that once set captives free gets tangled back up in ritual.
Let’s talk about baptismal regeneration—the idea that in the act of baptism, especially infant baptism, regeneration actually takes place. According to Lutheran theology, baptism doesn’t just symbolize salvation—it causes it. The Holy Spirit regenerates the person through the water. Infant. Adult. Doesn’t matter.
You might be thinking: Wait, isn’t that basically what Rome teaches? Ding ding ding. You’re not wrong. The language is less sacramental vending machine and more “means of grace,” but the result is alarmingly similar: the grace of God tied to a ritual act, applied even when the recipient has zero conscious faith.
Here’s the problem: the Bible doesn’t describe regeneration as something administered externally. It describes it as a supernatural heart transplant by the Holy Spirit (Ezek. 36:26, John 3:5–8). Jesus says, “The wind blows where it wishes… so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement of sprinkling infants into the Kingdom.
Now, to be fair, some confessional Lutherans will argue, “Yes, faith is still required, but even infants can have faith because God gives it.” To which we reply: Cute idea, but show me that in Scripture. Every New Testament call to faith involves cognition, repentance, and trust. No biblical author ever urges a baby to repent.
In the Lutheran ordo, faith is often treated as something that comes after regeneration, which is fine in Reformed theology—but the kicker is, Lutherans believe regeneration already happens in baptism. So for the baptized person who later abandons the faith, what are we to conclude? That they were regenerated and un-regenerated?
Enter the trainwreck of “losing your salvation.” Because in Lutheranism, you can. They teach that a person can be truly regenerated—truly saved—and then fall away. Which means your eternal security hinges not on Christ’s finished work, but on your ability to hold on.
That’s not good news. That’s grace on a bungee cord.
And here’s where things unravel: Lutherans claim salvation is by grace alone, but if that grace is applied through baptism and can later be revoked by falling away, then we’re not talking about the same kind of grace. We’re talking about a fragile grace. A grace that doesn’t preserve. A grace that doesn’t match Romans 8:30, where all who are justified are glorified.
So yes—while Lutherans stand tall on justification, their ordo salutis leaves too many holes unplugged. It’s a gospel that launches well but sputters mid-air.
Close? Sure.
But close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and evidently, Augsburg Confessions.
Ah yes, Roman Catholicism. The theological juggernaut of smells and bells, incense and indulgences, gold-plated guilt, and a doctrine of salvation so bloated it could file for spiritual diabetes.
You want a gospel of grace? Rome has one. It’s just buried under seven sacraments, seventeen councils, 2,000 years of spiritual bureaucracy, and a hearty helping of contradictions. And that’s before we even get to purgatory.
Let’s walk through Rome’s ordo salutis—if you can call it an “order” at all. Because in Catholic theology, salvation isn’t a clear chain of divine causality. It’s more like a hamster wheel covered in holy water and canon law.
This is where it all begins. Catholicism teaches baptismal regeneration—not symbolically, not potentially, but actually. That squirming, unaware baby being sprinkled is, according to Rome, being cleansed of original sin, justified, and made a member of the Body of Christ.
Problem: that baby has no faith, no repentance, and no awareness of anything other than the cold water and the weird man in robes.
Worse problem: the Bible never connects salvation to water + priest = automatic grace infusion. Faith is always present in conversion (Acts 2:38, Rom. 10:9–10). There’s no such thing in Scripture as sacramental salvation by proxy.
Because evidently, baptism wasn’t enough. Now you get confirmed by a bishop to “strengthen” your already-bestowed graces. Think of it as the Holy Spirit booster shot, administered years after your initial grace injection. This step allegedly brings about spiritual maturity—unless of course you never darken the door of a church again, in which case… well, grace is still technically in your file.
Now here’s where things get spicy. The Mass is not just a nice little snack-and-praise session. No, according to Rome, the bread and wine become the literal body and blood of Christ, and the Mass becomes a re-presentation (not repetition, they insist) of Christ’s sacrifice.
And if you miss it? If you don’t eat the transubstantiated Jesus regularly? Your spiritual life suffers. You could be in a state of mortal sin. Why? Because you need to keep receiving grace—infused grace—to stay in a state of salvation.
So, in summary: Jesus’ sacrifice was perfect, but not perfect enough to apply to you once and for all. You need it fed to you again and again by a consecrated priest standing between you and God.
Compare this with Hebrews 10:14: “For by a single offering he has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified.”
Rome would respond, “Yes, but we have tradition.”
Jesus responds, “It is finished.”
Get your sackcloth and ashes ready, because now you’re going to sin—guaranteed. And when you do, you don’t run straight to Christ. Nope. You go to a priest, confess your sins, and receive absolution and a to-do list of penance.
So we’ve traded 1 John 1:9 (“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us”) for a booth, a man, and some assigned spiritual homework.
Let’s call it what it is: grace on a leash. You get a little more every time you crawl back to the clerical dispenser. But only if you’re really sorry and do your Hail Marys.
You’ve been baptized, confirmed, eucharist-ed, penanced, and now you’re dying. Enter: anointing of the sick—one more sacramental shot of grace before you keel over. Because even after a lifetime of sacramental treadmill running, Rome still doesn’t think you’re clean enough for heaven.
Which leads us to…
So you die. You’ve believed. You’ve done your best. But guess what? You’re still not clean enough. You’ve got residual sin-stains that need a little post-mortem scrubbing.
Cue purgatory: the theological DMV. You take a number, get in line, and suffer for an undisclosed period until you’re sanctified enough to enter glory.
Here’s the scriptural support for this: crickets.
The thief on the cross didn’t get purgatory. He got a direct flight: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” (Luke 23:43)
But hey, purgatory has one big upside—for the church. It sells.
Indulgences. Masses for the dead. Prayers, candles, donations—all to shave time off your ghostly suffering. It’s the greatest religious marketing scheme in history.
In Catholicism, justification isn’t once-for-all. It’s ongoing. Infused. Conditional. You can increase it. Lose it. Regain it. It’s like trying to carry a bucket of water with a hole in the bottom—you’re never sure if you have enough.
This destroys the assurance that comes from Romans 5:1: “Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
It turns salvation into a lifelong probation, with the priesthood acting as your parole officer.
This is not the gospel. This is Galatians with a miter hat.
“Are you so foolish? Having begun by the Spirit, are you now being perfected by the flesh?” (Gal. 3:3)
Rome says yes.
The Roman ordo salutis is a labyrinth of rituals and human effort that smothers the finished work of Christ beneath layers of sacerdotal red tape. It’s not grace. It’s grace plus grit, plus guilt, plus Gregorian chants.
So while Catholicism may offer the aesthetic appeal of tradition and grandeur, it cannot offer what every sinner truly needs: assurance.
Because if you’re depending on the sacraments, the saints, the penance, the Pope, and purgatory—you’re not resting in Christ. You’re still climbing a ladder that goes nowhere.
You want salvation?
Don’t look to Rome.
Look to the cross.
It was finished there—not in a font, not in a booth, not at an altar—but at Golgotha.
And praise God—it only had to happen once.
When it comes to salvation, your average non-Reformed Baptist wants to be clear: “It’s all about a personal relationship with Jesus.” And sure, that sounds good on a bumper sticker. But under the hood, things get murky fast—especially when you ask how that relationship begins.
Because in many Baptist circles (particularly those outside of Reformed theology), the ordo salutis begins with a decision. Man makes the first move. You hear the gospel, feel conviction, and then you choose to accept Christ. Maybe you walk the aisle. Maybe you repeat a prayer. Maybe you get baptized the next Sunday. But either way, the operative engine in this model is human will.
Theologically, this leans hard into synergism—the idea that man and God work together in salvation. God does His part (sending Jesus, inspiring Scripture, prompting conviction), and you do yours (believe, repent, accept, commit). It’s a handshake, not a rescue. A transaction, not a transformation.
This view is sincere, well-meaning, and often rooted in a high view of Scripture. But it inverts the biblical order of salvation and puts the cart of human choice in front of the horse of divine regeneration.
Let’s be clear: Faith and repentance are necessary for salvation. But the Reformed position—and the biblical one—is that these are the fruit, not the root, of regeneration. You don’t believe to be born again. You’re born again so that you can believe.
Jesus says in John 3:3, “Unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Notice the order. Regeneration precedes seeing. And in verse 8, He compares the Spirit’s work to the wind: “The wind blows where it wishes… so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” God moves first, not man.
But in the typical non-Reformed Baptist model, salvation starts with man’s will. You have to make a choice. You have to accept the offer. God has done all He can do—it’s up to you now.
This creates some serious theological problems:
To be fair, many Baptists affirm eternal security—once saved, always saved. But the logic is often inconsistent. If salvation begins with man’s free will, then why can’t it end the same way? If you chose Jesus, couldn’t you also un-choose Him? The answer from a consistent synergistic framework should be yes. But most Baptist theology tries to have it both ways: man chooses salvation, but God keeps him in it. That’s a theological tension begging to snap.
What’s needed is a return to biblical clarity. The ordo salutis isn’t man reaching up. It’s God reaching down. The true order goes like this:
Non-Reformed Baptists don’t reject Scripture. Far from it. But their understanding of salvation often reverses the biblical flow of grace. In the end, it doesn’t rob God entirely of His glory—it just asks Him to share it.
And that’s not how salvation works. Because the God who saves does not share credit. Not with man’s will. Not with emotional decisions. Not with well-crafted altar calls.
He saves by grace. Through faith. As a gift. From start to finish.
And when we understand that, we don’t just gain better theology. We gain unshakable hope
So after wading through the theological bogs of works-righteousness, synergistic confusion, and sacramental gymnastics, you might be asking—what does the Bible actually teach about salvation? If it’s not a decision we initiate, a ritual we perform, or a feeling we conjure up—what is it?
Answer: It’s a divine sequence, revealed in Scripture, driven by God’s sovereign grace from start to finish. And no, you won’t find this order in a single tidy verse with bullet points, but when you zoom out across the pages of Scripture, a beautiful, consistent pattern emerges—one that exalts the glory of God, demolishes human pride, and gives real hope to weary sinners.
Let’s walk through it.
The starting point of salvation is not your decision, your desire, or your good behavior. It’s God’s eternal choice. Before there was time, before sin entered the world, before Adam breathed his first breath, God chose a people for Himself. This is the doctrine of election—the most humbling, pride-destroying, God-glorifying truth in Scripture.
“He chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love he predestined us for adoption as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will.” (Ephesians 1:4–5)
God did not choose us because of anything in us. He didn’t look into the future, see who would “accept Him,” and write their names in the Book of Life accordingly. That would make God’s choice a response to our action—which is backward.
No, God’s election is unconditional. It is based on His mercy, His purpose, and His glory. Romans 9 drives this home with unsettling clarity: “Though they were not yet born and had done nothing either good or bad—in order that God’s purpose of election might continue… she was told, ‘The older will serve the younger.’” (Romans 9:11–12)
This truth humbles us because it means we can take zero credit for our salvation. It comforts us because it means God’s love for us isn’t fragile or fleeting—it’s eternal. If He chose us before the foundation of the world, He’s not going to un-choose us after a bad week.
Election is not about being part of an exclusive club. It’s about God magnifying His grace by saving people who could never save themselves. It’s not unfair. It’s undeserved. And if it weren’t true, none of us would be saved.
We’ve all heard the gospel preached. But not everyone responds. Why? Because while many receive the external call, only some experience the internal, effectual call—the one that actually changes the heart.
This isn’t just hearing the gospel. It’s being summoned by the sovereign voice of God. When God calls, the soul comes to life. This isn’t a polite invitation. It’s a divine command with regenerative power.
“Those whom he predestined he also called, and those whom he called he also justified…” (Romans 8:30)
This verse links effectual calling directly to justification. Everyone who is called in this way is justified. No dropouts. No failures. This is not a general announcement. It’s a targeted summons.
Think of Jesus standing outside the tomb of Lazarus. He didn’t say, “If anyone in there wants to come out, please raise your hand.” No. He shouted, “Lazarus, come out!” And the dead man obeyed. That’s effectual calling.
God’s effectual call overcomes resistance. It pierces through spiritual blindness. It silences the noise of the world and awakens the soul. It’s not dependent on your emotional state, your intellectual readiness, or your moral improvements. It depends entirely on the God who gives life to the dead and calls into existence things that do not exist (Romans 4:17).
Regeneration is one of the most misunderstood aspects of salvation. It is not an upgrade. It’s not a motivational speech to the soul. It’s a resurrection. A miracle. A sovereign, invisible work of the Holy Spirit that brings a spiritually dead heart to life.
“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.” (John 3:3)
“He saved us, not because of works done by us in righteousness, but according to his own mercy, by the washing of regeneration and renewal of the Holy Spirit.” (Titus 3:5)
Let’s be clear: regeneration precedes faith. You are not born again because you believed—you believe because you were born again. That’s why Jesus says you cannot see the kingdom unless you’ve already been born again. Spiritual perception and saving faith are results of this new birth.
The Holy Spirit moves like the wind, Jesus said. You can’t control Him. You don’t schedule Him. He doesn’t need your permission. And that’s good news, because no one in their natural state wants Him. Romans 8:7 says, “The mind that is set on the flesh is hostile to God.” Regeneration turns hostility into hunger. Indifference into faith. Rebellion into repentance.
It’s also not a process. Regeneration happens in a moment. You may not even remember the precise second it occurred—but you will see its effects. Like wind moving the trees, the Spirit’s work shows itself in conviction, a love for Christ, a hatred of sin, and a newfound appetite for righteousness.
This is the miracle beneath your testimony. It’s why you repented. It’s why you believed. Because the Spirit of God did what no sermon, no argument, no emotional appeal ever could: He gave you life.
Here’s where the rubber meets the road—conversion. This is the first moment the work of salvation becomes visible. It’s where the sinner, now regenerated by the Holy Spirit, turns from sin and clings to Christ by faith. It’s real. It’s radical. It’s necessary.
But make no mistake—it is not the cause of salvation. It is the fruit of God’s work in the soul.
In most modern gospel presentations, conversion is the starting line. You hear the message, feel convicted, raise your hand, walk the aisle, pray the prayer, and—voila!—you’re in. But the biblical order flips that on its head. You repent and believe because God has already done the deeper, unseen miracle of regeneration.
“When they heard these things they fell silent. And they glorified God, saying, ‘Then to the Gentiles also God has granted repentance that leads to life.'” (Acts 11:18)
“For it has been granted to you that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but also suffer for his sake.” (Philippians 1:29)
Both repentance and faith are gifts—granted by God, not conjured up by you. They are your response, but not your initiative. If you came to Christ, it’s because the Spirit first came to you and made your dead heart beat with holy affections.
Let’s take them one at a time:
Faith is not merely intellectual agreement with facts about Jesus. It is trust. Dependence. Desperation. It’s a throwing of your entire life upon Christ because you’ve come to the end of yourself. And yes, it involves knowledge, assent, and trust—but it is rooted in the heart’s transformation, not the mind’s persuasion.
Saving faith says, “Nothing in my hands I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling.” It abandons all self-righteousness and all self-help. It’s not faith in your faith. It’s faith in Christ alone—His righteousness, His blood, His resurrection.
Repentance is not just feeling sorry. It’s not a guilty conscience or a teary moment during a worship song. It’s a 180-degree turn—a Spirit-wrought grief over sin that leads to hatred of it, a renouncing of it, and a longing to walk in holiness.
“Godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation without regret.” (2 Cor. 7:10)
Repentance doesn’t mean perfection. It means direction. A new orientation. A new allegiance. The heart that once loved darkness now longs for light. That’s not something you do to earn salvation—it’s the result of being made alive.
The tragedy in many churches is that we’ve trained people to “make a decision for Jesus” without explaining what that decision even means—or whether it’s even theirs to make. We’ve treated conversion like a contract rather than a miracle. We tell people to pray a prayer instead of commanding them to repent and believe.
But when conversion is rightly understood, it becomes the beautiful and visible fruit of God’s invisible work. It’s the moment you step out of the tomb Lazarus-style, wide-eyed and wondering how you’re alive—and knowing the only explanation is Jesus.
True conversion will bear fruit. It will change your desires, your direction, and your destiny. But the credit belongs entirely to God. He called. He regenerated. He gave the faith. He granted the repentance. You just responded—and even that, He supplied.
So if you’ve believed on Christ, rejoice. Not because you made a good choice, but because God gave you eyes to see, a heart to respond, and grace to believe. That’s conversion. That’s mercy. That’s gospel.
If regeneration is God giving you life, and conversion is your Spirit-enabled response, then justification is the legal declaration that follows—the moment God, the righteous Judge, slams His gavel down and declares you “Not guilty. Righteous. Accepted. Forever.”
This is the doctrine that split the Reformation from Rome. This is the hill to die on. Because if you don’t get justification right, you don’t get the gospel.
“Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” (Romans 5:1)
“We know that a person is not justified by works of the law but through faith in Jesus Christ… because by works of the law no one will be justified.” (Galatians 2:16)
Let’s be clear: justification is not a process. It’s not something that grows over time. It’s not infused into you. It’s not increased through the sacraments or church attendance or moral behavior. It is instantaneous, complete, and irrevocable—because it rests not on your performance but on Christ’s.
When God justifies a sinner, He does two things:
This is what theologians call double imputation. Your sin is put on Christ at the cross. His righteousness is put on you at conversion. That means when God looks at you, He doesn’t see your mess. He sees Christ’s perfection.
“For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.” (2 Corinthians 5:21)
This is the scandal of justification: that a holy God can declare the ungodly righteous without compromising His justice—because justice has already been satisfied at Calvary.
Some will protest, “But won’t people take advantage of that? Won’t they live however they want if they’re declared righteous by faith alone?” Paul anticipated that objection:
“Shall we continue in sin that grace may abound? By no means!” (Romans 6:1–2)
Justification doesn’t make you lazy in holiness—it sets you free to pursue it without fear of condemnation. You don’t work for God’s acceptance. You work from it. And that changes everything.
This doctrine also gives you unshakable assurance. If justification were based on your obedience, your feelings, or your spiritual progress, then every bad day would throw you into doubt. But because it rests on Christ’s finished work, it is as secure as the resurrection.
That’s why Paul says:
“Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies.” (Romans 8:33)
If God has justified you, no one—not Satan, not your past, not your conscience—can overturn His verdict.
So don’t dilute this doctrine. Don’t bury it under emotional appeals or moral imperatives. Don’t let it get swallowed up in religious rituals. Justification is the heart of the gospel. And if your church, your theology, or your experience makes you uncertain about where you stand with God, it’s not preaching this clearly enough.
You are not working your way into God’s favor. You’re not inching your way toward being good enough. In Christ, you’ve already been declared righteous. The verdict is in. The case is closed.
And that, dear Christian, is your peace.
If justification is the legal act of being declared righteous, adoption is the relational act of being welcomed into God’s family. It’s the warm embrace after the courtroom gavel. It’s not just the Judge declaring you innocent—it’s the Father wrapping you in His arms.
“You have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’ The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God.” (Romans 8:15–16)
Adoption is one of the most beautiful and often overlooked aspects of salvation. It’s not an afterthought. It’s not a bonus feature. It’s the crown jewel of what it means to be saved: you are not just forgiven—you are loved, accepted, and called a child of God.
But there’s more to this than emotional comfort. Adoption in the biblical world—especially in first-century Roman and Jewish contexts—was rich with legal and cultural significance.
In ancient Rome, adoption was a deliberate and powerful act. It wasn’t primarily about caring for infants or filling empty cribs. It was often about passing on a name, a legacy, an inheritance. When a Roman father adopted someone—often an adult male—it meant full rights, full inclusion, and full inheritance. The adopted son was legally considered as having all the rights and privileges of a firstborn son. Any previous debts or obligations were erased.
So when Paul says in Galatians:
“When the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son… so that we might receive adoption as sons.” (Gal. 4:4–5)
He’s not just using nice family language. He’s saying that through Christ, we have been given the full legal standing of firstborn sons—including the inheritance.
“And if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ.” (Romans 8:17)
Let that sink in. Not only are you God’s child, but you are a co-heir with Christ. Everything Christ has inherited by right—you share by grace.
This was radical to the Jewish mind as well. While the practice of adoption wasn’t as legally codified in Israel as in Rome, the concept of firstborn rights and inheritance was deeply ingrained in Jewish culture. The firstborn son received the lion’s share of the inheritance, the family name, and covenantal blessings.
So when Paul uses this language, he’s telling his Jewish and Gentile readers: In Christ, you are no longer spiritual orphans. You don’t just get to live in the kingdom—you bear the name of the King. You don’t just survive judgment—you inherit glory.
And don’t miss this: adoption is permanent. In Roman law, a natural-born child could be disowned, but an adopted child could not be legally disinherited. When God adopts you, He’s not looking for a trial period. He’s not waiting to see if you turn out okay. He knows you won’t—and He adopts you anyway.
The Spirit you’ve received doesn’t lead you into fear or religious slavery. He leads you into the Father’s embrace. And He enables you to cry out, Abba—a word of intimacy, dependence, and love.
This is the antidote to legalism. This is the cure for spiritual insecurity. If you are in Christ, you are a son or daughter of God—not metaphorically, not symbolically, but legally and eternally. You’ve been adopted, and you’ve been written into the will.
So live like it. Not with pride, but with peace. Not with presumption, but with gratitude. Your name is known in heaven. Your seat at the table is secured. And your inheritance is kept in glory, guarded by the God who signed the adoption papers in His own blood.
“See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God—and so we are.” (1 John 3:1)
This is it. The slow, glorious, often painful miracle of transformation. The pinnacle of Christian life. Sanctification is the journey between the courtroom and the throne room—between being declared righteous and becoming righteous in practice.
It is the process by which a sinner saved by grace is reshaped into the image of Christ, day by day, trial by trial, joy by joy. And it is not a burden. It is not drudgery. It is the most beautiful, hope-filled, God-exalting work He does in us this side of heaven.
“For this is the will of God: your sanctification.” (1 Thess. 4:3)
Not your comfort. Not your career. Not your Instagrammable Christian aesthetics. God’s will—His good, perfect, unstoppable will—is that you would be made holy.
Justification declares you righteous. Sanctification makes you look like it.
And here’s the wonder: the God who saved you doesn’t just leave you where you are. He moves in. He rewires you. He starts tearing out the old wallpaper of sin and shame, gutting the moldy corners of your heart, and renovating you into a temple fit for His presence.
“For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son.” (Rom. 8:29)
That’s the end goal—not just escaping hell, but becoming like Christ. Sanctification isn’t about being a better version of you. It’s about becoming less like you and more like Him.
And let’s be honest—it’s hard. Sanctification isn’t a spa day. It’s a battlefield. Your flesh doesn’t die quietly. Sin doesn’t roll over. The world doesn’t cheer you on. But this is the fight of faith—the one that proves that you truly belong to Him.
“Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you, both to will and to work for his good pleasure.” (Phil. 2:12–13)
Yes, you strive. Yes, you resist sin. Yes, you discipline your soul. But all of it is fueled and empowered by God’s Spirit working in you. This isn’t self-improvement. This is Spirit-empowered holiness.
What does sanctification look like? It looks like repentance that comes faster. Confession that runs deeper. Joy that grows stronger. Love that stretches wider. A heart that longs more for heaven and less for the world. It looks like stumbling forward in grace, eyes fixed on Christ, even when the road is steep.
And when you fall—and you will—you don’t fall out of grace. You fall into it. Because sanctification isn’t perfection. It’s direction. And the one who began the good work in you will carry it all the way to completion (Phil. 1:6).
Every act of obedience. Every sin resisted. Every spiritual habit formed. Every temptation overcome. Every tear of repentance. Every moment of worship. Every time you say “yes” to Christ and “no” to your flesh—that’s sanctification. That’s the Spirit testifying that you are not what you once were, and you will not remain as you are.
You are becoming like Jesus. Slowly. Relentlessly. Wonderfully.
Sanctification is the evidence that you’ve been justified. It’s the fruit of adoption. It’s the reason you fight sin—not to earn favor, but because you already have it. It’s the proof that God hasn’t just saved you from something—He’s saved you for something: holiness.
And one day, that long road will end. You will see Him. And when you do, you won’t just be amazed by His glory. You’ll finally realize—you’ve been made like Him.
“Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is.” (1 John 3:2)
This is the reason we walk with Christ. This is the heartbeat of Christian obedience. This is sanctification.
It is nothing less than God making you radiant with His holiness.
Let’s be honest. If salvation depended on us holding on to God, we’d all be lost by lunchtime. But praise God—it doesn’t. Perseverance is not about white-knuckling your way into heaven. It’s about God refusing to let go of you.
“I give them eternal life, and they will never perish, and no one will snatch them out of my hand. My Father… is greater than all, and no one is able to snatch them out of the Father’s hand.” (John 10:28–29)
This is the doctrine of perseverance: that those whom God has saved, He will keep. Not because they’re strong, but because He is faithful.
Some call this “eternal security.” Others prefer “preservation of the saints.” But the biblical picture is both security and transformation. The saved will endure—not because they are so determined, but because God is so committed.
“And those whom he justified he also glorified.” (Rom. 8:30)
Notice Paul doesn’t say, “some of those” or “most of those.” Everyone God justifies, He glorifies. No dropouts. No gaps. The chain is unbreakable. If God started the work, He will finish it (Phil. 1:6).
This is not a permission slip to coast through the Christian life. It’s an anchor for the storm. The true believer will stumble, struggle, even suffer—but they will not be lost. Because perseverance isn’t about human effort propping up salvation. It’s about God sustaining the soul He raised from the dead.
“Who will sustain you to the end, guiltless in the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is faithful, by whom you were called.” (1 Cor. 1:8–9)
So what does perseverance look like in real life?
It’s not glamorous. It’s often messy. But it’s real. Because the Spirit in you won’t quit. He won’t let you return to your vomit. He won’t let you be comfortable in rebellion. He will convict. Discipline. Correct. Restore.
Perseverance is also not individualistic. God keeps us through means: the Word, prayer, community, worship, suffering. He uses all of it to refine, strengthen, and uphold us. He doesn’t call you to survive the Christian life alone. He gives you a church, a shepherd, and His Spirit to carry you.
This doctrine destroys pride and fuels worship. If you’re still walking with Jesus today, it’s not because you’re awesome. It’s because He has not let you go.
That’s why Jude doesn’t end with a call for you to hold on tight. He ends with this:
“Now to him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you blameless before the presence of his glory with great joy…” (Jude 24)
He is able. He is faithful. And He will finish what He started.
So if your faith is faltering, your knees are weak, and your heart is tired—don’t despair. You are not holding yourself up.Christ is. And He has never dropped one of His own.
“The Lord is faithful. He will establish you and guard you against the evil one.” (2 Thess. 3:3)
That’s perseverance. That’s grace. That’s the unshakable promise that no matter how battered you feel—He will carry you home.
This is it. The final crescendo. The promised destination. The last link in the golden chain of salvation.
Glorification is the moment when faith becomes sight, when the struggle gives way to splendor, when every tear, every temptation, every battle is swallowed up in eternal joy. It’s not a metaphor. It’s not wishful thinking. It is the sure and certain end for every blood-bought saint.
“And those whom he justified he also glorified.” (Romans 8:30)
Did you catch that? Paul speaks of it in the past tense—as if it’s already done. That’s how certain it is in God’s mind. You may feel like a weary pilgrim right now. You may stumble and limp along the narrow path. But if God has justified you, your glorification is already on His books. It’s not up for debate.
So what is glorification?
It is the complete and final transformation of the believer into the image of Christ, both body and soul. It is the undoing of the Fall. The reversing of the curse. The full realization of every promise God has ever made to His people.
“But our citizenship is in heaven, and from it we await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body…” (Phil. 3:20–21)
We’re not just talking about a spiritual upgrade. We’re talking resurrection. Just as Jesus walked out of the tomb in a glorified, resurrected body—so will we.
Our bodies will be:
We will be like Christ—not in essence, but in glorified nature. We will never sin again. Never suffer again. Never doubt, fear, mourn, or ache again.
“Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet appeared; but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, because we shall see him as he is.” (1 John 3:2)
Of course, there are questions we still can’t fully answer:
We don’t know everything. But what we do know is enough to make us long for that day. Scripture doesn’t answer every curiosity, but it promises every certainty:
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more… for the former things have passed away.” (Rev. 21:4)
This is not a vague consolation prize. This is the full payment of the deposit Christ made on the cross. The Holy Spirit is called the “guarantee” or down payment (Eph. 1:14). Glorification is the final transaction—when the redeemed are brought fully and forever into the eternal joy of the Lord.
Every promise of God finds its Yes in Jesus. And glorification is the eternal Yes echoing through the halls of heaven. Not just forgiveness. Not just adoption. Not just transformation. But consummation—the wedding feast, the unshakable kingdom, the unveiled glory.
So lift your eyes, Christian. You are not home yet, but home is coming. And not one ounce of your suffering will be wasted. It’s all preparing you for the weight of glory that will one day crush every ounce of sorrow and make you radiant with the beauty of Christ.
“For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison…” (2 Cor. 4:17)
That’s glorification. That’s your destiny. And nothing—not hell, not death, not doubt—can stop it.
Because the Lamb who was slain has conquered. And you—yes, you—will share in His glory.
Forever.
If you’ve made it this far, it’s because something inside you is stirring. Maybe you’re realizing that what you thought was salvation was just religious performance in a borrowed suit. Maybe for the first time, you’re seeing how God does everything, and you do nothing but receive mercy with empty, trembling hands.
Let it hit you: You didn’t start this. God did.
You weren’t seeking Him. He sought you. You weren’t trying to clean yourself up. He raised you from the dead. You didn’t stumble into faith. He gave it to you. You didn’t just get your sins forgiven. He adopted you. He sanctifies you. He holds you fast. He will glorify you.
This is not a partnership. This is not a divine handshake across a theological table. This is a sovereign rescue missionfrom beginning to end.
The modern church has turned salvation into a spiritual buffet line—choose your options, make your move, and hope it sticks. But Scripture presents salvation as a blazing furnace of divine love and justice, where dead sinners are made alive, declared righteous, welcomed home, and transformed into the very image of Christ.
You’ve heard it said, “Just give your life to Jesus.” But the gospel says, Jesus gave His life for you—and then came and took yours.
You’ve been taught to “ask Jesus into your heart,” as if He’s waiting outside hoping for an invitation. But the truth is: He kicked down the door, breathed life into your corpse, and made you His own.
And that’s why it’s all to His glory. From election to glorification, every step drips with sovereign mercy. Every link in the chain forged by grace. Every breath of your Christian life sustained by a God who finishes what He starts.
“Salvation belongs to the Lord.” (Psalm 3:8)
This is not just doctrine. This is doxology. This is worship. This is the holy unraveling of every ounce of pride in your soul. This is the end of boasting. The death of self. The song of the redeemed:
“Not to us, O Lord, not to us, but to Your name be the glory.” (Psalm 115:1)
Let the weight of it undo you. Let the beauty of it lift your head. Let the glory of it compel you to fall on your face in worship.
If you’ve spent your life thinking salvation started with you—repent. If you’ve believed that grace helps those who help themselves—repent. If you’ve trusted in your decision, your prayer, your walk down the aisle—repent.
And come. Come to the fountain. Come to the sovereign Christ who saves not the strong, but the dead. Come to the One who calls, who justifies, who sanctifies, who glorifies.
You were not just saved from hell.
You were saved into Christ.
He is your righteousness. He is your inheritance. He is your sanctification. He is your glorification.
This is the order of salvation.
This is the unstoppable grace of God.
This is the gospel.
And it is flawless.
Dr. Kiefer Likens, Th.D. is a Reformed pastor, author, and creative director based in Texas. He leads Redemption Ranch, a church committed to Scripture-centered worship, and holds a doctorate in Biblical Exposition. Kiefer is the author of For Christ and Covenant and Measured by Grace, blending deep theology with pastoral insight. He also runs a creative agency, specializing in design, branding, and web development.
