The Puritan Reader

Most of us spend our lives like people trying to put together complex furniture without ever looking at the manual. We have a pile of parts—jobs, family stress, hobbies, and health goals—and we keep trying to force them to fit together. We have a vague hope that the finished product will look like “happiness,” but the thing never stays upright. We are constantly searching for the next life hack or spiritual discovery that will finally make everything click. We feel like we are walking at random, not knowing where we are going or why we are here.

Hugh Binning was a Scottish pastor in the 1600s who understood this problem better than any modern self-help guru. He was a young man of massive talent who died when he was only twenty-six. In his book, The Common Principles of the Christian Religion, he takes the heavy truths of the Westminster Shorter Catechism and turns them into a conversation about how to actually be a human. As a pastor who holds to these standards, I find Binning’s work a refreshing splash of cold water. He doesn’t offer a new invention to make your life easier; he shows you the actual foundation of the universe.

You Are Not the Main Character

Binning starts where our catechisms start: with the reason you exist. The most surprising takeaway for a modern reader is that your life is not actually about you. We are told from childhood to “find ourselves” and “follow our hearts,” but Binning argues that this is the fastest way to get lost. He shows that God made everything for his own glory. This sounds selfish to our ears until you realize that God is the only being who is completely perfect and self-sufficient.

When we live for God’s glory, we actually find our own profit. God doesn’t need us to make him better, but we need him to be anything at all. We are like streams that only stay fresh if we stay connected to the fountain. If we try to live for ourselves, we are like a branch that cuts itself off from the tree to be “free” but only ends up withering and dying. Binning shows that God’s self-seeking is actually the most beneficial thing for us because it keeps us connected to the source of all life.

“He is the fountain-head; you ought to follow the streams up to it, and then to rest, for you can go no farther. . . Dependence is the proper notion of a created being,—dependence upon that infinite independent Being, as the first immediate cause, and the last immediate end.”

Real Knowledge Walks on Two Feet

We often think of theology as a dusty list of facts. Binning flips this. He calls the knowledge of God a “practical science.” This means it isn’t something you just think about; it is something you do. You only truly know as much of God as you actually love and obey.

In our world, we have head knowledge about everything—we know how the stars move and how the earth is made—but we don’t know the Person who sits above them. Binning argues that if your religion stays in your head and doesn’t reach your hands or your heart, you haven’t actually learned anything. Real knowledge of God is “living knowledge.” It should change how you treat your family and how you spend your time. If we use the Bible only for curiosity or debate, we are using it the wrong way.

“Practice is real knowledge, because it is living knowledge. It is the very life and soul of Christianity, when there needs no more but the intimation of his will to carry the whole man.”

Your Brain Is Too Small for the Trinity

Binning handles the Trinity with a humility we rarely see today. Most people try to explain the Trinity with math or science and usually end up saying something silly. Binning tells us to stop. He says the Trinity is the greatest mystery in the world. It is a “divine darkness” caused by too much light.

Instead of trying to figure out how one can be three and three can be one using our tiny brains, we should simply believe what God says. He shows us that the Father, the Word (Christ), and the Holy Ghost all agree in one thing: the salvation of sinners. We should be like the angels who cover their faces in front of God’s majesty rather than like professors who try to dissect it.

“I think there is more profoundness in the sobriety of faith than in the depths of human wisdom and learning. . . Silence only can get some account of God; quiet and humble ignorance in the admiration of such a majesty is the profoundest knowledge.”

Our “Inventions” are Usually Bad DIY Projects

One of the most impactful sections of the book is where Binning talks about the Fall. He says God made man “upright”—straight, honest, and happy. But man got bored with perfection. We wanted to be our own gods, to be “wise” on our own terms. Binning calls our current state a search for “many inventions.”

Think about all the things we invent to make ourselves happy: new technologies, new social systems, new ways to distract ourselves. Binning shows that these are all just ways to cover up the fact that we are broken. We are like someone trying to fix a collapsed house with wallpaper. We try to be more happy, but we only end up more miserable because we left the only source of joy.

“Man did fall from blessedness by his curious and wretched aim at some higher happiness and more wisdom. . . He is like one that comes out with a great majesty upon a stage, and personates some monarch, or emperor, in the world; and then ere you can well gather your thoughts, to know what he is, he is turned off the stage, and appears in some base and despicable appearance.”

You Can’t Negotiate Your Way Out of a Broken Deal

Binning explains the “Covenant of Works”—the original deal God made with man. The deal was: “Do this and live.” If we stayed perfect, we stayed happy. But if we failed once, we died. Many people today are still trying to live by this broken deal. They think if they are “good enough,” God will have to let them into heaven.

Binning shows that this path is now a dead end. We are born guilty of that first rebellion. We are born with a nature that is opposite to God. The law doesn’t offer a second chance; it only offers a curse for those who fail even a little bit. This sounds dark, but it is the only way to see the beauty of the “second deal”—the Covenant of Grace in Jesus Christ. You have to know you are drowning before you will grab a life raft. Our only hope is a Mediator who can stand between a holy God and a sinful people.

Most of us spend our spiritual lives on a treadmill we can never quite keep up with. We wake up and try to be a little kinder, a little more honest, and a little more dedicated to our religious duties. We assume that if we just try harder, God will eventually be pleased with our progress. Yet, at the end of the day, that nagging sense of guilt remains. We wonder if we have done enough or if God is secretly angry at the thoughts we keep hidden from everyone else. This curiosity about where we stand with our Maker is the most important question a human can ask. John Bunyan, the famous author of The Pilgrim’s Progress, wrote The Doctrine of Law and Grace Unfolded to solve this exact problem. As a pastor who holds to the Westminster Confession, I find Bunyan’s work to be a vital guide for anyone tired of religious performance and hungry for real peace.

The Law Is a Mirror, Not a Cleaning Cloth

One of the most striking things Bunyan points out is that we often use the Law of God the wrong way. We treat the Ten Commandments like a ladder we can climb to reach Heaven. Bunyan argues that the Law was actually given to kill our self-confidence. Its job is to show us how dirty we are, not to wash us. If you want to know if your face is dirty, you look in a mirror. But you don’t take the mirror off the wall and start rubbing it on your skin to get the dirt off.

Bunyan explains that the Law is spiritual and reaches into the most secret corners of the mind. It doesn’t just care if you committed a crime; it cares if you had a vain thought or a foolish idea. If you have even one slip-up in your entire life, the Law cannot save you; it can only curse you. This is a massive wake-up call for anyone who thinks they are a “good person.” According to the deal we were born into, which Bunyan calls the Covenant of Works, anything less than 100% perfection results in total failure.

“For whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all,—that is, he hath in effect broken them all, and shall have the voice of them all cry out against him.”

Your Best Deeds Are Polished Sins

For many people, the hardest thing to hear is that their religious acts might be part of the problem. Bunyan warns against a “legal spirit.” This happens when we do good things—like praying, giving to the poor, or getting baptized—because we think those actions will make God love us. Bunyan argues that if you are trying to buy the love of Christ through your duties, you are acting from an old-covenant mindset.

This is a dangerous trap because it makes Christ into only a “piece of a Saviour.” You do what you can, and then you expect Jesus to make up the difference. Bunyan shows that this is actually an insult to God. He uses the image of a king who provides a massive, expensive feast, but the guest pulls a “mouldy crust” out of his pocket and eats that instead. When we bring our own “dirty, ragged righteousness” to God, we are telling Him that the cross wasn’t enough. Until you realize that your very best deeds are like “filthy rags,” you will never reach for the real help found in the Gospel.

A Deal Made Before You Existed

If the Law is so impossible, how can anyone be saved? This is where Bunyan’s explanation of the Covenant of Grace becomes so impactful. He shows that this “new deal” was not actually made between God and you. It was a bargain made between God the Father and God the Son before the world even began. This is surprising because it takes the pressure off our performance.

Because the bargain was made with Christ, the conditions of the deal were fulfilled by Him, not us. He acted as a “Surety” or a bondsman. Imagine you owe a massive debt you can’t pay, and a wealthy friend steps in and signs the paperwork to take the debt as his own. Once the surety stands bound, the original debtor is set free. Our safety does not depend on our ability to hold onto God, but on the fact that the Father and Son will never break the agreement they made with each other.

“I did not make this covenant with man, but with My Son, and with Him I will perform it; and seeing He hath given Me complete satisfaction, though His children do, through infirmity, transgress, yet My covenant is not therefore broken.”

The Difference Between Saving by Death and by Life

A vital takeaway in this book is how Bunyan explains the two ways Christ saves us. We often think of salvation only in terms of the cross, but Bunyan says we need both His death and His life. We are “reconciled” to God by His death. That was the legal payment that satisfied God’s justice and took away the curse. But Bunyan notes that we are “saved by His life.”

This refers to Christ’s work right now in Heaven. As our High Priest, He ever lives to make intercession for us. When we slip into sin or feel our hearts growing cold, we don’t fall out of the covenant. Why? Because we have a Lawyer in the court of Heaven who pleads the virtue of His own blood on our behalf. His death opened the door to God, but His life keeps it open. This distinction gives the believer a “satisfied though guilty” peace, knowing that our standing with God is maintained by a Person who never fails.

“For if when we were enemies we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son, much more being reconciled, we shall be saved by His life.”

Outshooting the Devil with His Own Arrows

Bunyan provides very practical advice for the person who feels beat down by their own failures. He calls this learning to “outshoot the devil in his own bow.” When Satan comes to you and points out how cold your prayers are or how weak your faith is, Bunyan says you should actually agree with him.

Instead of arguing that you are a pretty good person, you should use that accusation as a reason to run faster to Jesus. If your prayers are weak, trust more in Christ’s perfect prayers. If your sins are great, remember that Christ is a great Saviour who specializes in the worst cases. By doing this, you turn the devil’s weapons against him. Every time he reminds you of your weakness, it becomes a reminder of why you need the strength of the New Covenant.

Why You Should Read This Book

You should read The Doctrine of Law and Grace Unfolded because it clears up the fog that often surrounds our faith. We live in a culture that tells us we are the center of the universe, and our religion often follows suit, making everything about our feelings and our efforts. John Bunyan pulls us back to the solid ground of the two covenants.

This book is a masterclass in honesty. It will help you stop pretending that you are “doing okay” and show you why it is actually better to admit you are bankrupt. By understanding the difference between the Law and Grace, you can finally stop the exhausting work of trying to save yourself. This work will teach you how to look away from your own “dirty stable” and look toward the “treasure-house” of Christ. If you want a peace that can survive the judgment day, you need to understand the deals God has made. Bunyan doesn’t just give you information; he gives you a way to find rest for your soul.

Many people think that being a Christian is just about what happens inside your head or during a quiet moment in a church pew. You hear the sermon, you agree with the points, and you go home. But there is a nagging problem that follows us out the door: why does our behavior often fail to match our beliefs? We claim to be new people, yet we often carry the same old grudges and selfish habits. John Bunyan, the man who wrote The Pilgrim’s Progress, knew this struggle well. He spent years in a damp jail cell thinking about what it means to follow Jesus in the real world. His book, Christian Behavior, is a direct, no-nonsense guide to making sure your faith isn’t just a “painted fire” that provides no warmth.

As a pastor who holds to the Westminster Standards, I find Bunyan’s focus refreshing. He does not stop at the “doctrine of faith,” but immediately moves to the “beauty and excellency” of good works. He wrote this treatise in the prime of his life, shortly after his release from prison, under the constant threat of being thrown back into a cell. He knew that the only thing that would prove the power of the gospel to a hostile government and a skeptical neighbor was the transformed lives of the believers.

Faith Is the Sap, Holiness Is the Fruit

Bunyan is clear about where good works come from. They do not earn your salvation, but they must flow from it. He argues that a “corrupt tree” cannot bring forth good fruit. Every man by nature is an evil tree, and it is only through faith that a man is made good. Faith is a principle of life that moves a soul toward heaven. He uses a striking metaphor to explain how this change works. Faith is like perfume that falls on stinking leather; it doesn’t just sit on top but turns the very smell of the leather into the scent of the perfume.

This is a vital distinction for the laity to understand. We often try to “do better” to feel like real Christians. Bunyan says it works the other way around. Once faith is planted in the heart, it naturally inclines the soul toward holiness. If there is no motion, there is no life. If a person claims to have faith but has no desire to be holy, they are essentially claiming that a living thing can be perfectly still.

“Faith, when it is wrought in the heart, is like leaven hid in the meal, or like perfume that lighteth upon stinking leather, turning the smell of the leather into the savour of the perfume; faith being then planted in the heart, and having its natural inclination to holiness.”

The World Judges Your God by Your Actions

One of the most surprising and challenging takeaways from Bunyan is his view on “justification.” In our Reformed circles, we rightly emphasize that we are justified by grace through faith alone. But Bunyan adds a second layer that we often forget: while we are justified before God by faith, we are justified before men by our works. Your neighbor does not have an X-ray to see your heart or your standing in heaven. They judge the “grace of God” based on how you treat them.

If a believer is loose in their life, they cast “aspersions” on the doctrine of grace. The enemies of the gospel love to say that preaching “salvation by grace” leads to “looseness of life.” Bunyan argues that a life of holiness “justifies that grace before the world.” It proves that the gospel actually works. When we stand in our proper “rank and station” and do our duties, we are like flowers in a garden that honor both the garden and the gardener who planted them.

“for though we are justified freely by grace through Christ before God; yet we are justified before men by our works: nay, a life of holiness flowing from faith in us that are saved by grace, it doth justify that grace before the world, that justifies us before God.”

The Real Test Happens in the Living Room

Bunyan spends a massive portion of this book on what he calls “relative duties.” This is where the rubber meets the road. He goes person by person through the household: masters, wives, husbands, parents, children, and servants. He is remarkably practical and convicting here. He warns that some people are like saints when they are out in the world but act like devils the moment they step through their own front door. He calls this “open profession” a “best cloak” that people wear abroad but make little use of at home.

For husbands, Bunyan says your marriage should be a daily sermon to your wife about how Christ treats the church. For masters, he warns against being “greedy” and “overcharging” your servants with too much work. If you are a “professor” of religion but your servants or children find you to be a tyrant, Bunyan says your religion “stinks.” Our domestic behavior is the truest reflection of our hearts because that is where we are most unobserved and most ourselves.

“Open profession is like a man’s best cloak, the which is worn by him when he walketh abroad, and with many is made but little use of at home. But now what a man is at home, that he is indeed.”

Beware the Trap of Being a Painted Flower

Bunyan concludes with a sharp warning against “painted Christianity.” This is a religion of words without deeds. He identifies three specific sins that “spoil both Christian brotherhood and civil neighbourhood”: covetousness, pride, and uncleanness. He is especially hard on “prattlers”—those who talk a great deal about religion and can argue about theology but do nothing that shows love to the poor or self-denial in their own lives.

Pride, he says, is the “ringleader of the seven abominations.” It shows up in how we slight the poor or choose friends based on their status rather than their grace. He calls these people “painted flowers” which have no smell and “painted trees” which have no fruit. In the end, he warns that a “foolish virgin” who thinks she is happy with her empty lamp will find herself eternally disappointed when the time of grace is over.

“Wherefore take heed of being painted fire, wherein is no warmth; and painted flowers, which retain no smell; and of being painted trees, whereon is no fruit. ‘Whoso boasteth himself of a false gift, is like clouds and wind without rain.'”

You should read Christian Behavior because it will force you to stop hiding behind your theological labels. It is a book that “dives into the most subtle of all secret repositories, the human heart.” Bunyan does not let you stay in the clouds of abstract theory; he walks you into your kitchen, your shop, and your neighbor’s yard. He reminds us that the “dresser of our souls” is the “wisest husbandman,” and He expects to find a crop on His land. Reading this will help you see where your life is “withered” and how the “sap” of grace is the only thing that can make you green again. It is a call to stop talking about the light and start shining.

Most people I talk to in my church carry a quiet, heavy fear. They know they were saved by grace years ago, but they look at their current life—the same old temper, the wandering thoughts during prayer, the slow pace of change—and they worry they are about to run out of credit. We have this subconscious idea that Jesus gets us through the front door, but after that, it is up to us to keep the house clean enough for Him to stay. We treat salvation like a joint venture where Jesus does the heavy lifting at the start, and we do the maintenance. This curiosity about whether we have “enough” grace to make it to the end is exactly what John Bunyan addresses in his book, Christ A Complete Saviour.

As a pastor who holds to the Westminster Standards, I find that we often get the “priestly office” of Christ halfway right. We talk a lot about the cross, but we forget the other half of the job: His intercession. Bunyan, who spent plenty of time in a jail cell thinking about what keeps a soul steady, argues that if you only look at the cross, you are only seeing half of the story. If you feel like your grip on God is slipping, you need to realize that your safety doesn’t lie in your ability to hold on, but in Christ’s ability to speak for you right now.

The Blacksmith and the Unweldable Heart

Bunyan was the son of a blacksmith, and he uses that background to describe a problem every layperson understands. He calls the human heart “unweldable.” If you have ever seen a smith try to join two pieces of iron, you know they have to be white-hot to stick. Bunyan argues that our pride acts like dross that keeps us from being joined to Christ. We don’t want a “complete” savior; we want a partial one. We want to believe we can contribute at least a few pennies to our own ransom.

This is a startling takeaway because it shows that our biggest hurdle isn’t just our “bad” sins, but our “good” pride. We reject a savior who does everything because that would mean admitting we are utterly undone. Bunyan shows that until the “hammer of conviction” beats us into a state of total necessity, we will keep trying to fix ourselves. Real faith only begins when you realize you are hanging by a “brittle thread” over a gulf, and you finally stop trying to climb the thread and just let the Savior catch you.

“The pride of human nature will not suffer it to fall, as helpless and utterly undone, into the arms of Divine mercy. Man prefers a partial Saviour; one who had done so much, that, with the sinner’s aid, the work might be completed.”

Why Good People Still Need a Lawyer

One of the most impactful parts of this book is how Bunyan explains why justified people still need an intercessor. If we are already “made right” by the blood of Christ, why does He need to keep praying for us in heaven? This is where many Christians get confused. They think once they are justified, the legal work is done. But Bunyan points out that we are still “liable to pollution” as we walk through this world.

He argues that justification stands right alongside our imperfection. Being a Christian doesn’t mean you stop having sinful inclinations; it means you have someone at the right hand of the Father who takes your messy, “dung-smeared” duties and rinses them in His own blood before presenting them to God. This takes the pressure off your performance. You aren’t being kept in God’s family because you had a great week of devotions; you are being kept because your Intercessor never has a bad day. He is the “finishing work” of your salvation.

“Are they that are justified by Christ’s blood such as have need yet to be saved by his intercession? Then from hence it follows that justification will stand with imperfection. It doth not therefore follow that a justified man is without infirmity.”

Reaching the Very Back of the Line

Bunyan’s reflection on the word “uttermost” is something every backslider needs to hear. We usually think “uttermost” refers to Christ’s power, but Bunyan says it refers to our necessity. He looks at the people who are the furthest away—the “town sinner” and the “great backslider.” These are the people who feel like they are at the very end of the line, almost out of sight of the gate.

This is a vital point for the laity to understand. You might think you have wandered too far or stayed away too long for the Gospel to apply to you. But Bunyan argues that Christ’s job is specifically to save the “hindermost.” If the sun can reach the furthest planet in the system, Christ can reach the soul that thinks it has drifted into deep space. He is glorified in saving the “uttermost” man and the “uttermost” sin. It is His name and His honor that are on the line, which means He has a personal stake in not letting you go.

“He is able to save to the uttermost, to the very hindermost, them that come to God by him. . . He therefore counts it an honour to be a great Saviour, to save men to the uttermost.”

The Grave as a Final Cleaning Service

Finally, Bunyan changes how we look at death. For the person who doesn’t know Christ, death is a “bailiff” coming to arrest a debtor. It is a terrifying, sudden seizure. But for the saint, Bunyan uses a beautiful image: the grave is simply the “parting place” between grace and sin.

This is a deep comfort for those of us who feel the constant tug-of-war between our desire to be holy and our natural pull toward sin. We often feel like we will never be rid of our flaws. Bunyan shows that while inherent grace weakens the “filth” of sin now, the grave is where the “being of sin” is finally dropped. It isn’t that the dirt of the grave has magic powers, but that God uses that moment to follow us home and finally strip away the last of our corruption so we can shine like the sun.

“With the saints, the grave’s mouth is the final parting place between grace and sin. . . God will follow Satan home to his own door; and will there, where the devil thought to have swallowed us up, even there by the power of his mercy make us… shine like the sun.”

Why You Should Spend Time With This Book

You should read Christ A Complete Saviour because it will fix your “looking unto Jesus.” We see Him in His sorrows and His blood, which is good for our justification, but we forget to follow Him through the veil. This book forces you to look up and see Him in His priestly robes, wearing your name on His breastplate right now.

Most of us spend our lives building a spiritual resume. We check off the boxes: we don’t cheat on our taxes, we try to be kind to our neighbors, and we show up to church when the doors are open. We have a quiet, nagging hope that when we finally stand before God, He will see our “good person” badge and let us into heaven. This is the great curiosity of the human heart—we want to be our own saviors. But John Bunyan, in his book A Discourse Upon the Pharisee and the Publican, suggests that this is actually the fastest way to hell. As a pastor who holds to the Westminster Confession, I see this same struggle every Sunday. People think they are fine because they aren’t as bad as the guy on the news. Bunyan takes a single story from the Gospel of Luke and uses it to strip away our masks, showing that a “good” man can be a disaster in God’s eyes, while a “notorious” sinner can walk away perfectly justified.

Your Good Deeds Are an Insult to God

The most shocking thing Bunyan argues is that our best works can actually be a high affront to God. We often think of our sins as the things that keep us from Him and our good deeds as the things that bring us near. Bunyan flips this. He explains that if you try to bring your own righteousness to God to buy His favor, you are mocking Him. He uses a vivid image of a king who invites his friends to a massive, expensive feast. The table is loaded with the best food imaginable. But instead of enjoying the king’s gift, some guests pull “mouldy crusts” out of their pockets and start eating them instead, as if the king hadn’t provided enough.

This is exactly what the Pharisee did in the temple. He bragged about his fasting and his tithes, essentially telling God that His grace wasn’t necessary. Bunyan shows that the moment you trust in your own behavior, you reject the righteousness of Christ. If you think you are “better” than others, you aren’t actually looking at God; you are looking at your own shadow.

“A lord invites his friends to a sumptuous banquet, the provision is bountiful and in rich abundance, when some of the guests take a few mouldy crusts out of their pockets and lay them on their plates… would it not be a high affront to, a great contempt of, and a distrust in, the goodness of the Lord.”

You Might Just Be Talking to the Mirror

Bunyan points out a terrifying detail in the Pharisee’s prayer: he “prayed thus with himself.” While the man used God’s name and stood in the temple, he wasn’t actually talking to God. He was his own audience. He was performing for himself, praising himself, and enjoying the sound of his own religious voice. His prayer was “extempore,” or made up on the spot, but it was done in the strength of his own pride rather than the breathing of the Holy Spirit.

This is a warning for everyone who loves the “form” of religion without the power. You can pray for half an hour, use all the right theological terms, and even give thanks for your “blessings,” but if your heart is focused on your own advancement above your neighbor, God isn’t even in the room. Bunyan reminds us that a prayer made of praise can still be a “downright hypocrite” act if it is grounded on the lie that we are naturally better than others.

“God and the Pharisee were not together, there was only the Pharisee and himself… Paul knew not what to pray for without the Holy Ghost… But the Pharisee had no need of that, it was enough that HE and HIMSELF were together at this work.”

God Justifies the Wicked, Not the Improved

One of the most impactful takeaways from Bunyan’s work is his explanation of when and how God makes a person righteous. Many people believe they need to clean up their lives first, then God will accept them. They think sanctification (becoming holy) comes before justification (being declared right). Bunyan, following the logic of Romans 4, insists this is a “damnable error.”

He argues that God justifies the “ungodly.” Christ’s righteousness is put upon us while we are still “naked” and “unclean” in ourselves. If you wait until you are “good” to come to God, you will never come. The Publican didn’t wait until he had quit his job as a tax collector for the Romans—a job Bunyan compares to a Dutchman joining a French invader to rob his own countrymen. He came as he was, in his “filthy garments,” and was made righteous by an act of God’s grace before he ever performed a single good deed.

“Righteousness by imputation must be first… forgiveness is extended by God, then when we lie in our blood, though to us it is manifested afterwards… For God for Christ’s sake hath forgiven you.”

The Wisdom of Being a “Crafty” Beggar

We usually think of wisdom as being smart, successful, or well-behaved. Bunyan says the Publican was “cunning” and “crafty” because he knew exactly where the help was. While the Pharisee was wasting his time with a “sandy foundation” of ceremonies and “ragged remnants” of moral laws, the Publican went straight for the only thing that works: mercy.

Bunyan notes that the Publican’s prayer—”God be merciful to me a sinner”—is heavier than the earth. It is the prayer of a man who knows he is an “evil tree” that cannot produce good fruit on its own. He didn’t try to negotiate. He didn’t say he would “do better next time.” He simply fell before the judge and asked for a pardon. Bunyan shows that this “low” posture is actually the highest form of spiritual wisdom because it engages the only thing in the universe that can actually save a soul.

“And is this thy way poor Publican! O cunning sinner! O crafty Publican! thy wisdom has outdone the Pharisee, for it is better to apply ourselves to God’s mercy, than to trust to ourselves that we are righteous.”

Shame Is a Spiritual Beauty Spot

The Pharisee stood boldly, head held high, looking around to make sure everyone saw him. The Publican, however, “stood afar off” and would not even lift his eyes to heaven. Bunyan calls this “blushing” a virtue. In a world that tells us to be proud and bold, Bunyan reminds us that holy shame is a sign of a heart that actually sees God’s majesty.

When a man sees God as He really is—a “consuming fire”—and sees himself as he really is—a “bit of carrion”—he cannot help but hang his head. This isn’t just about feeling bad; it’s about an honest acknowledgment of the infinite distance between the Creator and the creature. By smiting his breast, the Publican was “quarrelling with his heart” for leading him into sin. Bunyan teaches us that this inward “sorrow for something done” is a necessary evidence that the Holy Spirit is actually working in us.

“To stand… before God in prayer, with blushing cheeks for sin, is one of the excellentest sights that can be seen in the world… Shame for sin is a virtue, a comely thing; yea, a beauty-spot in the face of a sinner that cometh to God for mercy.”

Why You Should Read This Book

You should read A Discourse Upon the Pharisee and the Publican because it is a spiritual mirror that refuses to lie to you. If you feel like your religious life is a performance, or if you are tired of trying to be “good enough” for a God you don’t even know, Bunyan’s words will bring you a peace that is “satisfied though guilty.”

Most people spend their lives spiritually parched. We wake up every day trying to find a sense of peace or a reason to hope, but we look for it in the wrong places. We treat our souls like a lawn in a mid-summer drought, trying to keep things green with a spray bottle of self-improvement. We worry that God’s grace is a limited resource, like a reservoir that might run dry if we ask for too much or fail too often. As a pastor who spends his life looking at the big, heavy truths of the Westminster Confession, I see this anxiety in the pews every Sunday. People are terrified that their sin is bigger than God’s mercy.

John Bunyan, the man who gave us “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” wrote a book in the final year of his life that acts like a dam breaking over a dry valley. In “The Water of Life,” he takes a single image from the book of Revelation—a river of water of life, clear as crystal—and uses it to explain that God’s grace is not a stingy drip. It is a majestic, overwhelming river. Bunyan isn’t interested in giving you “ten steps to a better you.” He wants to show you a God who is so full of life that He can’t help but let it overflow toward you. This book is a direct challenge to anyone who thinks they have finally managed to out-sin the reach of the Gospel.

A River of Grace That Makes Mountains Look Like Dust

One of the most impactful points Bunyan makes is about the sheer scale of God’s grace. We tend to measure our problems in tons and God’s help in ounces. When we look at the mess we’ve made of our lives, it feels like a mountain. Bunyan turns this around by showing us that if grace is a river proceeding from the throne of God, then our sins are like small pebbles in a massive current.

He argues that the “Spirit and grace of the gospel” is called a river specifically to answer our “mountainous doubts.” We fear there isn’t enough to quench our thirst or wash away our filth. But Bunyan points out that this river is deep, broad, and always rising. It doesn’t just cover our sins; it swallows them up. When you compare your sin to the infinite grace of God, the math changes. Your “huge” problem suddenly looks like an ant’s egg compared to the majesty of the Alps.

“I know there are many mountebanks in the world, and every of them pretend they have this water to sell; but my advice is, that thou go directly to the throne thyself… This is to give us some small illustration of the exceeding riches of his grace, which as far, for quantity, outstrips the biggest rivers, as the most mighty mountain doth the least ant’s egg or atom in the world.”

Grace Is a Matter of Justice, Not Just Kindness

As a Reformed pastor, I find Bunyan’s focus on the “source” of this river to be the most surprising part of the book. He notes that the river proceeds from the “throne of God and of the Lamb.” In our modern world, we often think of grace as God just “letting things slide” because He is nice. But Bunyan shows that grace is a throne-room matter. It is an act of authority and, more importantly, an act of justice.

Because the Lamb was sacrificed, the debt is paid. This means that when God gives you grace, He isn’t breaking His own laws; He is fulfilling them. Grace flows from the seat of justice. This gives the believer a “sound bottom” to stand on. You don’t have to worry that God will change His mind or realize He made a mistake in forgiving you. The river of grace is a “faithful fulfilling of promises” backed by the highest authority in the universe. It is a legal reality that provides a “satisfied though guilty” peace to the soul.

“Take man from this river, and nothing can make him live: let him have this water and nothing can make him die… All things that happen to thee are, for Christ’s sake, turned into grace.”

The Danger of Mixing Your Own Ingredients Into the Water

Bunyan is very protective of the “purity” of this water. He points out that the text says the river is “pure” and “clear as crystal.” In his day, as in ours, people were always trying to add something to the Gospel. They wanted to mix in a little bit of human merit, a little bit of “doing your best,” or a few “works of supererogation.”

Bunyan warns that any attempt to mix your own works with the grace of God makes the water poisonous. It must be taken “by itself.” The moment you add your own goodness to the mix, it is no longer the water of life; it becomes the muddy water of human invention. This purity is what makes the Gospel “clear.” You can see all the way to the bottom. There is no fraud or hidden catch. God isn’t trying to trick you. He offers the water freely to the poor and needy because only they are honest enough to admit they are dying of thirst.

“Only, if thou wouldst drink it, drink it by itself, and that thou mayest not be deceived by that which is counterfeit, know it is as it comes from the hand of our Lord, without mixture, pure and clear as crystal.”

You Are Either a Fish or a Frog in the River of Grace

Bunyan uses a vivid illustration about fish and frogs to explain how people relate to the church. He says the grace of God is like an element. A fish lives in water; it is its “only proper element.” If you take a fish out of the water, it dies. A Christian is like that fish—they cannot survive without a constant supply of the Spirit.

A frog, however, can live in the water, but it can also live on the land. Bunyan compares this to people who want a “pretty good shift” by using grace to remove their guilt while still living for their own lusts and the world. They “scrabble on” in a religious profession, but they aren’t truly of the river. If you confine them to grace alone, they loathe it and die. This takeaway is a sharp warning for us to check our own hearts. Do we love the river because we need it to breathe, or are we just using it as a temporary hiding spot before hopping back into the mud?

“The fish dieth if she be taken out of the water, unless she be timely put in again; the saint dieth if he be not in this river… they are fish, not frogs, that can live in the river, as in their only proper element.”

You should read “The Water of Life” because it will stop you from being a “talker of grace” and help you become a drinker of it. John Bunyan wrote this while he was literally standing on the bank of the “black river” of death, and he writes with a joy that is infectious. He shows that the Reformed faith is not a cold, dry system but a “heart-ravishing sight” of a God who pours out His own soul to save yours. If you are tired of “muddied” doctrines and “foul” opinions that leave you feeling empty, this book will point you back to the spring-head. It is a call to stop your “slavish fears” and simply drink and live forever.

Most of us have felt the sting of religious fakery. We see it in the news or perhaps in the person sitting two pews over on Sunday morning. It creates a nagging curiosity: is there any real power in Christianity, or is it all just a mask people wear to look decent? As a pastor who spends my days studying the Westminster Confession, I know our theology is solid. But I also see how often we fail to live it out. We talk about grace while living like the world. We claim to be new people while keeping our old habits firmly in place. This gap between what we say and what we do is exactly what John Bunyan tackles in his often-overlooked book, A Holy Life the Beauty of Christianity.

Bunyan wrote this during a time of massive moral rot in England. The king and his court were living in open sin, and many in the church were following their lead. Bunyan didn’t just want people to have better ideas; he wanted them to have a different life. He argues that if you “name the name of Christ,” you have a duty to walk away from everything that dishonors Him. This book is a heavy dose of medicine for anyone tired of a faith that only exists in words. It is a “searching treatise” that turns your spirit inside out to see what is actually hiding in the corners of your heart.

Justification for God and Good Works for Men

One of the most striking points Bunyan makes is how we show our faith to the world. He holds firmly to the Reformed truth that we are made right with God by grace alone. This happens in the heart and is invisible to everyone else. But he is quick to add that while God sees our faith, our neighbors only see our lives. If we claim to be forgiven but don’t do good works, people have every reason to doubt us.

Bunyan uses the image of a tree to make his point. A tree is a tree even before it grows fruit, but we only know what kind of tree it is once we see what it produces. If a man says he believes but his life is barren, his profession is empty. Good works don’t make a man good, but they show that he has been made good by the Spirit. Without a life that matches the message, our religion is nothing more than talk.

“He then that would have forgiveness of sins, and so be delivered from the curse of God, must believe in the righteousness and blood of Christ: but he that would shew to his neighbours that he hath truly received this mercy of God, must do it by good works; for all things else to them is but talk.”

The Danger of the Black Sheep

Bunyan is deeply concerned with how a single “bad Christian” ruins the reputation of the whole church. He points out that people are much faster to notice one person’s failure than the quiet holiness of a hundred others. We live in a world that is looking for an excuse to ignore the Gospel. When a person who claims to follow Christ lives a filthy life, they provide that excuse.

He calls these people “the devil’s most stinking tail.” One mangy sheep can infect an entire flock. When we live in sin while carrying the name of Christ, we aren’t just hurting ourselves; we are poisoning the air for everyone around us. We become stumbling blocks for the blind and a reason for the world to mock God. This is a sobering thought for anyone who thinks their private “little sins” don’t matter to the rest of the body.

“One black sheep is quickly espied among five hundred white ones, and one mangey one will soon infect many. One also, among the saints, that is not clean, is a blemish to the rest, and as Solomon says, ‘One sinner destroyeth much good.'”

Hunting Down Your Darling Sin

Perhaps the most challenging part of the book is Bunyan’s focus on what he calls the “constitution-sin.” We all have that one sin that fits our personality perfectly. For some, it is pride; for others, it is greed or a quick temper. It is the sin we are most inclined to, the one we try hardest to excuse or hide. We might give up a dozen other bad habits, but we want to keep this one “darling” sin tucked away in our pocket.

Bunyan argues that you can’t truly depart from iniquity until you go after this one first. As long as you keep your favorite sin, you are still a hypocrite, no matter how religious you look. He says your neighbors know you by this sin. It is your “visible sin.” Until you cast it away, no one will believe you have actually changed. To follow Christ means a total surrender, not a partial one where we keep a few pets in the basement.

“And, indeed, if a man will depart from iniquity, he must depart from his darling sin first; for as long as that is entertained, the others, at least those that are most suiting with that darling, will always be haunting of him.”

Your Home Life is Your Real Religion

Bunyan takes his exhortation out of the church building and right into the living room. He identifies what he calls “family iniquity.” This includes house brawls, quarrels, and the way parents and children treat each other. He warns that many people act like saints when they are out in public but act like “devils” the moment they step across their own threshold.

This is a vital takeaway because it reminds us that our most important “ministry” is how we carry ourselves at home. If you are a tyrant to your spouse or if your children see you as a fraud, your public prayers are worthless. God sees within doors just as clearly as He sees outside. A master or mistress of a house is a teacher by their life. If you teach your servants or children how to sin by your own example, you are bringing them to destruction with you.

“Open profession is like a man’s best cloak, the which is worn by him when he walketh abroad, and with many is made but little use of at home. But now what a man is at home, that he is indeed.”

The Trap of Musical Christianity

A very surprising insight Bunyan offers is the “musicalness” of the Word. He notes that some people love hearing a good sermon simply because the preacher has a pleasant voice or handles the topic well. They enjoy the “melody” of the Gospel like they enjoy a catchy tune, but they have no intention of letting it change them. They “hear the words but do them not.”

This is a warning against a purely emotional or intellectual religion. You can enjoy the feeling of a church service or the logic of a theological argument and still be “black as others” in your daily life. True faith isn’t a feeling you get during a hymn; it is a “salt” that seasons your whole life. If the message doesn’t move you to leave your sins behind, you are just listening to a song that will eventually end in silence.

“There is some kind of musicalness in the word; when well handled and fingered by a skilful preacher… they hear thy words, but do them not.”

The Mystery of Godly Hiding

Finally, Bunyan deals with the “hiding of God’s face.” Many people think that if they are going through a hard time, God must be angry. But Bunyan shows that God often withdraws His presence to make us chase Him more. He wants to break our “carnal security.” When the comforts of the world are dried up, it is a call to realize our true life is in the root, which is Christ.

This “mercy of a frown” is meant to bring us back to the “closet.” Bunyan encourages us to be “closet Christians.” He doesn’t mean we should hide our faith, but that we should have a secret life with God that is deeper than our public one. If you find God in your closet, you will carry His “savour” into your shop, your house, and your conversation.

Most people I talk to in my congregation struggle with the same quiet fear. They look at their own lives—the repeated sins, the coldness of their hearts, and the many ways they fail—and they wonder if God is eventually going to run out of patience. We have a habit of measuring God’s love by our own human capacity. We think His affection works like ours: it ebbs and flows based on how well the other person is behaving. We treat the Gospel like a bank account where we are constantly worried about overdrawing our balance.

John Bunyan, the man most of us know for writing The Pilgrim’s Progress, spent his final days preparing a manual for this exact problem. All Loves Excelling is a deep study of Ephesians 3:18-19, where the Apostle Paul prays that we would know the “breadth, and length, and depth, and height” of Christ’s love. As a pastor who subscribes to the Westminster Confession, I found Bunyan’s insights to be a necessary weight for our often light-headed age. He shows us that the love of Christ is not a shallow pond; it is an infinite ocean that matches every dimension of our human misery.

A Love Broad Enough to Cover the Leprosy of Sin

Bunyan begins with the “breadth” of this love. He notes that sin is a spreading disease. It is like a leprosy that doesn’t just stay in one spot but covers the whole person. We often feel that our sin has spread so far that it has reached the very edges of our lives, leaving no room for grace.

Bunyan argues that God’s grace has a broader “skirt” than our sin has a “leprosy.” No matter how far your corruption has spread, the breadth of God’s mercy in Christ is wider. It overmatches the “overflowing rage” of our enemies and the vastness of our own failures. This is a comfort because it means we never have to fear that we have “out-sinned” the reach of the Gospel.

“Be the spreading nature of our corruptions never so broad, he will find sharp-pointed things enough to stick in the mire of them, for our affliction. . . But now, answerable to the spreading of these sharp-pointed things, there is a super-abounding breadth in the sovereign grace of God.”

An Arm Long Enough to Reach the Fugitive

Sometimes we don’t just feel dirty; we feel distant. We feel as if we have been driven away from God by the “mighty tempest” of our own guilt. We think we have wandered so far into the wilderness that God can no longer see us or hear our cries. We “measure arms” with God, assuming that because we cannot reach Him, He cannot reach us.

Bunyan reminds us that God has a very long arm. He can reach Jonah in the belly of a whale and he can reach a backslider in the deepest corner of their rebellion. The “length” of Christ’s love means that no distance is too great for His grace to bridge. Even when we feel “free among the dead,” God’s mercy can extend itself to find us and bring us back to stand before Him.

“Do not thou conclude, that because thou canst not reach God by thy short stump, therefore he cannot reach thee with his long arm. Look again, ‘Hast thou an arm like God,’ an arm like his for length and strength? It becomes thee, when thou canst not perceive that God is within the reach of thy arm, then to believe that thou art within the reach of his.”

Everlasting Arms Underneath the Sinking Soul

There are seasons in the Christian life that feel like “sinking fits.” We aren’t just far away; we are going down. We feel the load of the curse, the weight of the law, and the pressure of the devil treading us down into the “deep mire.” This is where the “depth” of Christ’s love becomes our only hope.

Bunyan explains that no matter how deep the pit of our distress, the mercy of God lies even deeper. He uses the beautiful image of “everlasting arms” that are “underneath” the believer. Even if you sink as deep as hell itself, you will eventually hit the “couching” mercy of God that catches you. This depth is what allows a Christian to be “satisfied though guilty,” knowing that the riches of God’s wisdom have found a way to save those in the lowest depths.

“Lord, my soul in this depth of sorrow calls for help to thy depth of mercy. For though I am sinking and going down, yet not so low, but that thy mercy is yet underneath me: Do of thy compassions open those everlasting arms, and catch him that has no help or stay in himself.”

A Ladder for the High Mountains of Difficulty

If breadth, length, and depth deal with our internal struggles, “height” deals with our external obstacles. We often look at the “giants” in our way—spiritual wickedness in high places, the distance of heaven, or the “high walls” of our own corrupted reason—and we despair of ever reaching the goal.

Bunyan points us to Jesus Christ as the “Jacob’s ladder.” While heaven is unreachably high for a sinner, Christ is the ladder that stands on the earth and reaches the celestial gate. The height of His grace is intended to bring us over every dark mountain and every angelic opposition. This reminds us that our entry into heaven does not depend on our climbing ability, but on the One who has already mounted up and promised to draw us after Him.

The Wisdom of Cross-Handed Blessings

One of the most profound sections of the book deals with how we judge God’s dealings with us. Bunyan observes that we often prefer providences that “smile upon the flesh”—health, wealth, and ease. We think these are the signs of God’s love. But Bunyan argues that God often works like Jacob, who crossed his hands when blessing Joseph’s sons, putting the greater blessing on the head of the younger.

God often takes away what is desirable to the flesh to make us “fruitful in the land of our affliction.” Sickness, loss, and disappointment are often the “cross-handed” ways God delivers His best treasures. This reflection is vital because it stops us from judging God’s heart by our circumstances. The afflicted Christian is often the “best sort of Christian” because they have seen the works of the Lord in the deep waters.

“He therefore, in blessing of his people, lays his hands across, guiding them wittingly, and laying the chiefest blessing on the head of Ephraim, or in that providence, that sanctifies affliction.”

The Best Knowledge Is Knowing You Can’t Know It All

The central paradox of the book is that we are commanded to “know” a love that “passeth knowledge.” Bunyan explains that the highest attainment of a Christian is to realize that the love of Christ is unsearchable. If we could fully understand it, it would be finite like us. Because it is eternal and infinite, it will keep us occupied for all eternity.

Knowing that Christ’s love is beyond us gives us a “help in reserve” during times of temptation. When the devil tells you that your sin is too great to be forgiven, you can answer that Christ loves with a love that “passeth knowledge.” It is a weapon that baffles the enemy. Our small minds cannot find the bottom of this ocean, and that is exactly why we can rest in it.

Why You Should Spend Time With This Book

You should read All Loves Excelling because it will force you to stop looking at your own “short stump” of an arm and start looking at the infinite reach of Christ. John Bunyan wrote this while he was essentially packing his bags for the “Celestial City,” and he writes with the urgency of a man who knows that nothing else matters.