"What Does It REALLY Mean To Follow Jesus?" | September 20, 2026 | Hannah Lowery

There is a question that cuts right to the heart of the Christian life, one that is easy to avoid but impossible to ignore forever: Is my faith actually doing anything? Not just in the sense of personal peace or Sunday morning attendance, but in the way it shapes how I treat people, where I spend my energy, and what I am willing to give up.

The book of James does not let us off the hook on this question. It is one of the most direct, unsparing books in the entire Bible, and it does not waste time getting to the point. In just a few verses spanning the end of chapter one and the beginning of chapter two, James lays out a challenge that is as relevant today as it was when it was first written to scattered Jewish believers navigating persecution and cultural pressure.

The challenge is this: genuine faith requires genuine action, and genuine action requires genuine humility.

A Religion Worth Something

James opens with a statement that is almost startling in its bluntness. He describes a religion that is worthless, one where a person claims belief but makes no attempt to change the direction of their life. He then flips the coin and describes what pure and genuine religion actually looks like: caring for the most vulnerable members of society and refusing to be shaped by the values of the surrounding world.

This is a direct confrontation with a version of Christianity that has become comfortable. A version that is more concerned with what it receives than what it gives. A version that shops for the right church experience, the right community, the right sermon, without ever asking what it is being called to lay down.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. captured this tension powerfully when he said that any religion concerned about the souls of men but unconcerned about the conditions that damage those souls is a dry, dead, do-nothing religion in need of new blood.

That is a hard word. But it is the right one.

The Rich Man and the Thing We Cannot Let Go

There is a story in Mark chapter ten that illustrates exactly what James is describing. A man runs up to Jesus, kneels before him, and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. He has kept the commandments since childhood. He is sincere, earnest, and by every outward measure, doing everything right.

Jesus looks at him with genuine love and tells him there is one thing left. Sell everything, give it to the poor, and follow.

The man walks away sad because he has many possessions.

The thing that keeps this story from being merely a lesson about money is the word possessions. Because what Jesus is really addressing is power. As long as this man's security rested in his wealth, he could never fully rely on Jesus. His comfort was his ceiling.

Most of us will not be asked to liquidate our bank accounts. But every single one of us has something we are holding onto. A reputation. A relationship we are careful not to disturb. A comfortable routine. Time. The question Jesus is asking is not specifically about money. It is about whatever it is that keeps you from fully trusting him.

Favoritism, Judgment, and the Trap of Selfishness

James chapter two opens with a scene that feels almost too obvious to apply to ourselves. A wealthy person walks into a gathering and gets the best seat. A poor person in dirty clothes is told to stand in the back or sit on the floor. James calls this out as discrimination rooted in evil motives.

It is easy to read that and think it does not apply to us. But the principle runs much deeper than seating arrangements. It is about whose interests we are actually serving when we engage with other people.

When we are kind to those who can benefit us and distant from those who cannot, we are practicing favoritism. When we welcome people who look like us, think like us, and vote like us, while quietly hoping that certain other kinds of people find a different church, we are practicing favoritism. When our generosity comes with an unspoken expectation of reciprocation, we are practicing favoritism.

James is not saying that wealth is evil or that financial comfort is sinful. He is leveling the playing field, insisting that every single person who walks through the door is equally in need of God. The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

The Law That Humbles Us All

James also takes on the deeply human tendency to rank our own sins as more acceptable than the sins of others. He makes a statement that has unsettled believers for centuries: breaking one commandment makes a person just as guilty as breaking all of them.

This is not meant to be discouraging. It is meant to be equalizing. God's law is not designed so that the disciplined and well-behaved can earn their way to righteousness. It is designed so that every person, without exception, arrives at the same conclusion: I cannot do this on my own. I need grace.

That realization is the beginning of humility. And humility, it turns out, is the thread that runs through everything James is addressing. Favoritism is selfishness wearing a social mask. Judgment is pride wearing the costume of righteousness. Picking and choosing which commandments apply is self-appointed authority dressed up as discernment.

The Hundredfold Promise

The story of the rich man does not end where most people think it does. After the man walks away, the disciples are stunned. If that is what it takes, who can possibly be saved?

Jesus tells them it is impossible without God. And then he makes a promise. Everyone who has given up houses, family, or property for his sake will receive a hundredfold return, along with eternal life. Those who are least will be greatest. Those who sacrifice will be rewarded beyond what they gave up.

This is the great reversal at the heart of the gospel. Humility is not a loss. Sacrifice is not the end of the story. Laying down your power is not defeat. It is the very posture through which God does his greatest work.

The question left on the table is a simple one: What are you still holding onto?