God Notices You Haven’t Moved

 

James 2:14–26 is the portion of Scripture where faith stops being theoretical and starts asking uncomfortable questions, which is why it feels so out of place in modern, seated Christianity.

Faith, thankfully, has become much easier than it used to be. Once upon a time, belief required movement, inconvenient things like showing up, giving something up, or involving oneself in the messiness of other people’s lives. Today, we’ve refined faith into something far more manageable: a set of correct opinions, spoken sincerely, preferably while seated.

This is good news for anyone committed to spiritual growth without physical exertion. You can believe deeply, feel warmly, and pray passionately, all without interrupting your schedule, your comfort, or your sense of personal peace. Faith, as it turns out, works best when it stays abstract.

After all, God surely understands that action is complicated. Helping people is messy. Getting involved invites discomfort. And nothing kills a good spiritual mood faster than someone else’s actual need. Much better to acknowledge suffering in theory, offer a thoughtful phrase or two, and move on with a clear conscience. Compassion, once expressed verbally, has done its job.

This approach has a certain elegance to it. Belief remains pure, untouched by risk or responsibility. Faith is affirmed, intentions are declared, and no one has to stand up. The system works, at least until someone opens the letter of James and starts asking awkward questions about whether belief that never moves is actually alive.

James has the audacity to suggest that faith might be visible. Worse, he implies that it might cost something. He even goes so far as to claim that faith without action isn’t merely incomplete or underdeveloped, but dead, a word that tends to spoil otherwise comfortable theology.

Which raises an unsettling possibility: maybe God has noticed that we haven’t moved.

 

How Comfort Became a Spiritual Discipline

Somewhere along the way, comfort quietly slipped into the role once occupied by obedience. It didn’t arrive loudly or demand recognition. It simply showed up, took a seat, and was eventually mistaken for maturity. Discomfort, after all, is exhausting. Growth is inconvenient. And nothing says “spiritual progress” quite like not being bothered.

Comfort now enjoys a privileged place in modern faith. We protect it carefully, often in the name of wisdom. We don’t want to “burn out,” “overextend,” or “get involved in something messy.” These are reasonable concerns, of course, especially when real people are involved. Real people ask for time, attention, and help that cannot be delegated to a prayer request.

So comfort is reframed as discernment. Distance becomes boundaries. Inaction becomes patience. We assure ourselves that God understands our need for rest, even as our rest somehow never ends. Faith, in this version, is something you maintain rather than exercise. It is preserved best when kept from strain.

The problem, as James inconveniently points out, is that comfort produces nothing. It feeds no one. It clothes no one. It risks nothing and therefore reveals nothing. A faith that exists solely to keep us comfortable may feel peaceful, but peace without love in motion is just quiet self-protection.

Comfort is seductive because it feels holy. It speaks in soft tones and quotes Scripture selectively. It reminds us that God knows our hearts, which is true, but James seems oddly uninterested in hearts that never direct the body to move. He insists that faith has weight, direction, and evidence. It leaves marks.

The irony is that we often work very hard to remain comfortable. We build entire belief systems around staying exactly where we are. Yet James disrupts the illusion with a simple implication: if faith never disturbs our comfort, it may not be faith at all. It may simply be a well-cushioned belief system, expertly designed to keep us seated.

 

Talking to God While Stepping Over the Needy

There is something profoundly efficient about a faith that speaks upward while looking straight ahead. Eyes closed in prayer, hands folded politely, and attention fixed firmly on heaven, all while carefully avoiding whatever inconvenient need might be directly in front of us. This approach has the advantage of appearing deeply spiritual without requiring any change in direction.

James 2:15–16 ruins this efficiency by describing a believer who encounters someone lacking food and clothing and responds with warm words instead of help. “Go in peace,” they say. “Be warm and well fed.” The phrasing is flawless. The theology is sound. The problem is that the person remains hungry. James’ question is painfully practical: What good is that?

Words, it turns out, are remarkably inexpensive. They cost nothing, weigh nothing, and require no follow-through. They allow us to feel compassionate without being inconvenienced by compassion. Prayer, when divorced from action, becomes a way to outsource responsibility to God while maintaining the illusion of involvement.

This kind of faith is appealing because it keeps suffering at a manageable distance. We acknowledge it, label it, and move on. The needy person becomes a moment rather than a neighbor. Concern is expressed, conscience is soothed, and nothing changes, except our sense of having done something meaningful.

James refuses to allow that illusion to stand. He insists that faith, if genuine, does not step over people in need on its way to a spiritual moment. It stops. It notices. It responds. Anything less, he suggests, is not compassion but performance.

The uncomfortable truth is that talking to God while ignoring people is easier than listening to God speak through them. Need disrupts our plans. It demands attention, resources, and risk. But James leaves little room for escape: faith that cannot be bothered to help is not merely weak, it is dead. And dead things, no matter how well-spoken, do not bring life to anyone.

 

Faith That Never Leaves the Couch

There is a particular kind of faith that thrives best indoors, preferably seated, and ideally uninterrupted. It believes sincerely, agrees enthusiastically, and feels very strongly, all from a position of complete rest. This faith is not lazy, of course. Lazy would imply neglect. This is something far more refined: faith that has carefully concluded that movement is unnecessary.

After all, belief is internal. Trust is spiritual. Action, we are told, is optional, sometimes even suspicious. If faith truly matters, it should not require proof, evidence, or exertion. A faith that leaves the couch risks exposure. It might be tested. Worse, it might have to adjust.

James, once again, refuses to cooperate with this logic. He does not ask whether faith exists in principle. He asks whether it does anything. He challenges the reader to “show” faith, a word that implies visibility, motion, and consequence. Couch-bound faith, by definition, cannot be shown. It can only be claimed.

This creates a problem, because claims are easy. Anyone can say they believe. James even points out that demons manage this quite well. They possess excellent theology, firm conviction, and absolutely no obedience. Their belief changes nothing about their allegiance. It merely informs them of their situation.

Faith that never leaves the couch follows a similar pattern. It knows the right answers, feels appropriately moved during sermons, and remains perfectly still when real opportunities for love appear. It is deeply offended by the suggestion that belief should inconvenience it.

The danger is not that this faith is insincere. It may be heartfelt. The danger is that it is inert. A faith that never moves never risks being wrong, never risks being costly, and never risks being real. James offers no comfort here. His assessment is clinical and unsentimental: faith without works is dead.

Dead faith does not struggle. It does not sweat. It does not stand up. It remains exactly where it is, confident, articulate, and unmoving, while life passes it by.

 

A Word Before We Go

God,

we are very good at believing.
We are fluent in the language of faith, comfortable with its phrases, and confident in our conclusions. We know when to bow our heads, when to speak, and how to sound sincere. What we are less practiced in is moving.

We ask You to forgive us for the ways we have confused comfort with wisdom, caution with discernment, and inaction with trust. We have often chosen words over work, intentions over obedience, and peace of mind over love in motion. We have prayed past people You placed directly in front of us.

Teach us to recognize faith not only as something we hold, but as something that carries weight. Remind us that belief was never meant to remain seated. If our faith is alive, let it walk. If it is strong, let it lift. If it is real, let it risk.

Disturb us gently when we grow too settled. Interrupt our routines when they become excuses. Give us eyes that notice need, hearts that respond without calculation, and hands that act before we overthink ourselves into stillness.

We do not ask for grand gestures or dramatic obedience. We ask for the courage to move when movement is required, to love when love is inconvenient, and to trust You enough to stand up.

Let our faith be seen, not for our sake, but for the sake of those who need more than our words.

Amen.