Have you ever noticed how much your sense of God’s love seems to rise and fall with your performance? On a day when you’ve prayed faithfully, served well, or even preached a strong sermon, you feel secure—almost as if God must be smiling down on you. But on a day when you’ve stumbled into sin, skipped prayer, or failed in ministry, you feel distant, ashamed, or even unworthy.

That quiet assumption—that God’s love for us goes up or down depending on how we’re doing spiritually—is one of the most common struggles in the Christian life. It reveals how easily we confuse justification (our standing before God) with sanctification (our growth in holiness).

When we tether God’s acceptance to our performance, we drift toward religion (legalism). When we presume on His grace and downplay His call to holiness, we drift toward irreligion (license). Both ditches distort the gospel.

But there is a better way—a third way. The gospel doesn’t swing between these extremes. It secures us in Christ’s finished work and empowers us to live in both grace and truth.

Covered in Robes We Didn’t Sew

One of the most beautiful pictures of salvation comes from Isaiah:

“I will greatly rejoice in the Lord; my soul shall exult in my God, for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation; he has covered me with the robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom decks himself like a priest with a beautiful headdress, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels” (Isaiah 61:10, ESV).

Isaiah doesn’t exult in his own achievements. He rejoices because God has clothed him. The imagery is intimate and celebratory—a wedding, a covenant, a robe of righteousness that he did not create or earn.

This is the essence of justification. God has declared us righteous, not because of our good days or bad days, but because of Christ. Yet how often do we live as if the robe depends on the quality of our prayer life, our ministry fruit, or our daily obedience?

On our best days, we quietly assume we’ve earned a little more of God’s favour.
On our worst days, we fear we’ve lost it.

But Isaiah reminds us: our righteousness is not stitched together by our performance. It’s a gift, freely given. We are clothed in Christ Himself (Galatians 3:27).

This is why the gospel must be distinguished from its two counterfeits:

Religion (legalism): *“I obey, therefore I am accepted.”*
Irreligion (license): *“I’m accepted, therefore obedience doesn’t matter.”*

The gospel says something entirely different: “I am accepted in Christ, therefore I obey.”

The Two Thieves of the Christian Life

The early church father Tertullian once observed: “Just as Christ was crucified between two thieves, so this doctrine of justification is ever crucified between two opposite errors.”

Those two “thieves” are religion and irreligion, and they show up everywhere in Scripture. Take Jesus’ parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector:

“The Pharisee, standing by himself, prayed thus: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other men, extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week; I give tithes of all that I get.’ But the tax collector…beat his breast, saying, ‘God, be merciful to me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man went down to his house justified, rather than the other” (Luke 18:11–14, ESV).

If you were sitting in the crowd that day, you would have expected Jesus to commend the Pharisee. He was respected, disciplined, and morally upright. But Jesus shocks His listeners by declaring the tax collector—the despised sinner—the one who goes home justified. Why? Because the Pharisee trusted in himself, while the tax collector cried out for mercy.

Religion is dangerous because it blinds us to our need for grace. Irreligion is dangerous because it blinds us to God’s holiness. Both are ways of avoiding God as Saviour. Both are self-salvation projects—one through self-righteousness, the other through self-indulgence.

Jesus Between the Extremes

In John 8, religious leaders drag before Jesus a woman caught in adultery. They demand judgment.

“Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her… Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more” (John 8:7-11, ESV).

To the Pharisees, Jesus exposes their hypocrisy: they too are guilty. To the woman, He extends mercy—but not license. He does not say, “You’re free to keep living as you please.” He says, “Neither do I condemn you…go, and sin no more.”

Do you see the balance? Jesus doesn’t crush her under the weight of religion, nor does He excuse her sin in the spirit of irreligion. Instead, Jesus offers the gospel: no condemnation, and a new life.

This is what John means when he says, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us… full of grace and truth” (John 1:14, ESV). Jesus does not compromise either side. He embodies both perfectly.

The Lostness of Both Sons

Jesus makes the point even more explicit in His parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15:11–32).

The younger son represents irreligion. He rejects his father, squanders his inheritance, and ends up in ruin.
The older son represents religion. He stays home, obeys outwardly, but resents his father’s grace when his brother returns.

Both sons are lost.

Both misunderstand the father.

And both need grace.

Neither of the sons are the hero of the story. The real hero is the father. He runs to embrace the rebellious younger son. He goes out to plead with the resentful older son. He extends costly love to both.

And in doing so, Jesus shows us the true heart of God. The gospel does not affirm the younger son’s rebellion or the older son’s pride. It exposes both as dead ends and offers a third way: the way.

Author:Damian Grateley