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Does God do anything in the act of baptism? If so, what is he up to?

When we ask the question from the human angle — “What are we doing in the act of baptism?” — most Christians would share similar answers. In baptism, we obey the command of the Lord Jesus for new disciples (Matthew 28:19). In baptism, we display outwardly the inward work of faith in our hearts (Colossians 2:11–12). In baptism, we profess allegiance to Jesus and, with him, his people (Acts 2:38–41).

But does God work in and through our baptism?

This question matters for Baptists. While emphasizing that baptism is for believers — an act of profession and obedience from faith in Christ — we do not want to miss the beauty of what the Bible says about God’s work in baptism. And for those considering a move away from Baptist circles because they want a more “God-centered” view of the ordinances, Baptists not only have an answer to this question, but we lean on the answer the New Testament, not speculation, provides.

God’s Work in Baptism

For good reason, we take care when we describe God’s activity in baptism. As we discern how God uses baptism for our good, we also identify what God is not doing in baptism.

First, while baptism is a sign of the new covenant, like circumcision was of the old (Romans 4:11), God does not bring his people into the new covenant through baptism — he does that through faith alone (Jeremiah 31:31–34). Second, while being “born of water” relates to new birth (John 3:5), God does not regenerate his people through baptism. Rather, the Holy Spirit is the agent of new life (John 3:8), with baptism serving as confirmation of his decisive work. Third, while baptism pictures union with Christ in his death and resurrection (Romans 6:3–4), God does not unite his people to Jesus through baptism. Those receiving the sign are already dead to sin and alive to God through faith in Jesus Christ (Romans 5:1).

While it might be simpler to avoid the above misconceptions by spiritualizing any reference to baptism in the New Testament or by taking God out of the equation completely, let’s not miss the real grace from God in baptism. Baptism is not necessary or sufficient for salvation, but God gives us baptism as a specially ordained means of bringing us to completion in Christ.

As Hercules Collins (1646–1702) explained, the sacraments “are sacred Signes, and Seals, set before our Eyes, and ordained of God for this cause, that he may declare and seal by them the Promise of his Gospel unto us” (An Orthodox Catechism, 25). Collins doesn’t claim that God uses baptism to seal the new covenant unto us. Along with other Particular Baptists in his era, he prioritizes “the promised Holy Spirit” (Ephesians 1:13), not baptism, as the seal of the new covenant (Second London Baptist Confession, appendix). Instead, the “seal” of baptism relates to the “Promise of his Gospel.”

The grace of God in baptism, then, seals two realities for us: (1) an enjoyment of our clean conscience by faith and (2) a confirmation that we are God’s children.

God Comforts the Conscience

The apostle Peter writes, “Baptism, which corresponds to this, now saves you, not as a removal of dirt from the body but as an appeal to God for a good conscience, through the resurrection of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 3:21). Baptism does not save in the washing itself, but it does save in some sense — namely, as an appeal to Christ for a clean conscience.

When we are baptized as an expression of and from faith, Christ seals our testimony and thus assures us of the new life offered through his death and resurrection. Christ uses baptism as a means of his confirming to our conscience that our sins have been forgiven.

In some sense, just as Paul preaches, baptism washes away our sins as we call on the name of the Lord (Acts 22:16). As Andrew Fuller writes, “Sin is washed away in baptism in the same sense as Christ’s flesh is eaten, and his blood drank, in the Lord’s supper: the sign, when rightly used, leads [our souls] to the thing signified” (Complete Works, 3:341). Faith is like conception, and baptism is like your birth. You were alive from the moment you believed in Jesus for the salvation of your sins, but you are publicly sealed through your baptism — and that sealing of your testimony gives an even deeper enjoyment of your new life.

God Confirms We Are His

When reminding the Galatians that they are children of God, Paul writes, “In Christ Jesus you are all sons of God, through faith. For as many of you as were baptized into Christ have put on Christ” (Galatians 3:26–27). Paul singles out faith as the instrument for sonship, and this sonship is then confirmed in and through the memorable event of baptism. Baptism confirms we are his children through a living picture of being dead to sin and alive in Christ.

Jesus’s own baptism emphasizes this point. Because we are in Christ by faith and the work of the Spirit, the words the Father speaks of Christ prove true of us as well: “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased” (Mark 1:11). As we approach baptism as new believers (and each time we witness a baptism in the future), we can remind one another of this deep truth: We are God’s beloved children, and our baptism serves as a God-appointed help to assure us of this reality.

Christ uses baptism to help remedy the shame of our sin and to bring us into a state of honor by assuring us of our adoption into God’s family. This is why we baptize in the name of Jesus (Acts 2:38; 10:48; 19:5) — that is, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit (Matthew 28:19). Like a wife taking on the name of her husband in marriage, believers publicly take on the name of Christ, and the triune God, at baptism.

For Assurance of Faith

These realities — spiritual comfort and public confirmation of a believer’s sonship — work together for an objective assurance of salvation. When done in faith, baptism serves as a sign and seal of Christ’s work for us on the cross and in his resurrection. Baptism is not regenerative, but it is powerfully confirmatory.

In other words, we now have visible assurance of invisible realities. That is a true grace from God, mediated through his body, the church, which has affirmed our faith by applying the sign and seal of baptism to us. Faith is like a prince’s ascension to the throne when his father dies, but baptism is like his coronation day, a public sealing and celebration of the reality that he is the new king.

This assurance, while not always subjectively felt by the believer in the ups and downs of life, provides us with an objective pledge from Christ that our sins have been forgiven and that we are children of God. When trials come, or when we give into sin, we can remind one another of both the inward work of God’s Spirit by faith and the outward confirmation of our baptism to strengthen assurance: “Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water” (Hebrews 10:22). Of course, baptism should not provide assurance for those who presume on God’s grace, as Paul warns (1 Corinthians 10:1–6). But it should for those who are seeking to bear fruit in keeping with repentance.

Therefore, as we ourselves come up from the waters of baptism, or as we witness baptisms in the future, we can look to each other and say, “Just like this person, I have taken on the name Christian by faith in the Lord Jesus and obedience to his command for baptism. Through union with Christ, God sees me as a beloved child.” And we pray that this objective assurance then leads to the joy of subjective assurance.

Called to Obey

Not only does baptism remind us of our gracious standing with God, but Paul leads the way in applying baptism to obedience. Should Christians continue in sin? “By no means! How can we who died to sin still live in it?” (Romans 6:2). And what does Paul point to as proof that we have died to sin? Baptism: “Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?” (Romans 6:3).

Again, baptism itself does not bring us into union with Christ’s death. Paul says that believers, who were once slaves of sin, “have become obedient from the heart” (Romans 6:17). Yet Paul points to baptism as objective evidence of this death, evidence that motivates ongoing obedience to God.

So, as we look to the waters of baptism for the first time, or as we look yet again at a new believer passing through the waters, we can give thanks to God that we are his — washed clean of sins and declared his children — and we can look to him for fresh grace to follow Jesus as Lord.

Once, long ago, you prayed for a loved one’s salvation earnestly and often. Now, you still pray sometimes, but you can barely bring yourself to hope for the answer.

Or maybe you once pleaded for grace against a stubborn character flaw or besetting sin. Now, you’ve succumbed to a sort of fatalism about yourself. Some things just don’t change.

Or perhaps you once sought God for a relational breakthrough. Now, though the sorrow stays deep, reconciliation seems all but impossible.

Most of us can think of some desire we once brought before God almost without ceasing. As far as we could tell, the request honored him and aligned with his word. So, we prayed and took our stand, our eyes open for the answer.

But then weeks passed, and then months, and then years, maybe many years. And gradually, we stopped asking so often. As hope faded, so too did our prayers.

Dear brother or sister, however many months or years have passed since you last asked — really asked — God to fulfill some godly desire, I invite you to ask again and keep asking. And I want to do so with some help from George Müller (1805–1898), a friend who has given my own prayers fresh hope.

Fifty-Year Prayers

Müller’s life is, from one angle, a story of answered prayer. At the beginning of his orphan ministry in Bristol, England, he resolved to ask no one for money except God. The result was a life of constant prayer — and constant answers to prayer. “I should not go a particle too far,” Müller said in his seventies, “[that] I have had thirty thousand answers to prayer, either in the same hour or the same day that the requests were made.”

Müller offered that miraculous testimony, however, as the backdrop to a much different experience: “One or the other might suppose all my prayers were thus promptly answered. No; not all of them. Sometimes I have had to wait weeks, months or even years; sometimes many years” (Delighted in God, 193).

In 1844, for example, Müller began praying daily for the salvation of five friends. A year and a half later, the first was saved; five years after that, the second was saved; six years more, the third was saved. But then forty years passed, and the final two remained unsaved. Müller, however, kept praying — every day.

“When once I am persuaded that a thing is right and for the glory of God,” he wrote, “I go on praying for it until the answer comes.” Then, turning to Christians like you and me, he offered a gentle correction: “The great fault of the children of God is, they do not continue in prayer; they do not go on praying; they do not persevere. If they desire anything for God’s glory, they should pray until they get it” (223–24).

When the years wear on, when the answer delays even for decades, what would Müller counsel us to do? Continue; go on; persevere. Keep praying for a breakthrough.

Ask, Seek, Knock

Maybe we wonder, though, whether Müller was right to keep praying for answers that did not come. After all, Scripture gives us examples of saints who are told to stop asking for something: Moses on the edge of the promised land (Deuteronomy 3:25–26), Paul with his thorn (2 Corinthians 12:8–9). So, we might even wonder if persistent prayer for the same thing displeases God. At some point, shouldn’t we take his delay as his decline?

No doubt, a prayer life can become lopsided. We can so focus on one prayer that we neglect many other good prayers. Or we can desire something good for reasons far different from “hallowed be your name” (Matthew 6:9). But if we are persuaded, as Müller says, “that a thing is right and for the glory of God,” and if God’s glory remains the passion beneath our prayers, then Scripture offers plenty of encouragements to keep praying.

Didn’t Jesus tell his disciples parables “to the effect that they ought always to pray and not lose heart” (Luke 18:1)? The widow asked and kept asking till her requests beat down the judge (Luke 18:4–5). The late-night knocker pounded the door till his friend got out of bed and gave him what he wanted (Luke 11:5–8). So, Jesus says, “Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you” (Luke 11:9).

As we look at his ministry more broadly, wasn’t it the persistent people who received what they asked for? The crowds shushed the blind man, but he kept shouting for mercy — and got it (Mark 10:46–52). Jesus initially ignored the Canaanite mother, but she kept kneeling before the Master’s table until he gave her a crumb (Matthew 15:21–28).

Teachings and stories like these move us toward the same conclusion the commentator Derek Kidner drew from the Psalms: “God, it seems, prefers an excess of boldness in prayer to an excess of caution” (Psalms 73–150, 319). So, unless you have a compelling reason for why you should no longer pray for some deep, God-honoring desire, keep praying.

Grace in God’s Delays

Maybe you’re persuaded to keep praying. But you wonder, as I do, why God designed prayer to work this way. If God can open any door at any time, why does he sometimes keep us knocking for so long? If God can answer thirty thousand prayers the same day Müller prayed them, why did he wait fifty years before answering others?

Once, Müller and his staff at the orphanage were praying for God to provide money they dearly needed. Finally, when they had no way to pay for the children’s breakfast the next morning, God sent funds through a man who had been staying nearby. Müller reflected,

That the money had been so near the Orphan-Houses for several days without being given is a plain proof that it was in the beginning in the heart of God to help us; but because He delights in the prayers of His children, He had allowed us to pray so long; also to try our faith, and to make the answer so much the sweeter. (Delighted in God, 82)

God surely has many reasons for his delays. But here Müller fastens upon three that help us not lose heart.

DEEPER COMMUNION

First, God sometimes delays because he delights in the prayers of his children. Christian, God loves your humble, sincere prayers. He loves to see your soul knee-bent. He loves to hear you renounce self-reliance and confess that “what is impossible with man is possible with God” (Luke 18:27). Earnest, needy, believing prayers are incense before him, a sweet-smelling pleasure (Revelation 8:3–4). And when the months or years go on, and all earthly probabilities pass away, he delights to find you still praying.

Unanswered prayer can feel like God distancing himself from us. But what if his delays are invitations to draw nearer — to love him above all answers and to believe he can still answer?

STRONGER FAITH

Second, God sometimes delays because he wants to try our faith. We need faith, strong faith, to keep praying for something that has not come — to keep waiting for a sun that won’t rise, to keep knocking on a door that won’t budge. The faith of many has withered in the waiting. It can feel easier to believe God doesn’t hear or doesn’t care than to ask and ask again.

But God does hear; he does care — and he is able, with a word, to end the long delay. So, though we have no promise that God will answer our prayers exactly as we expect him to, unanswered prayer can foster in us the trust of Abraham, who “grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God” (Romans 4:20), fully convinced that God could fill an old woman’s womb — or rescue a prodigal, or bring personal breakthrough, or rekindle cold love.

SWEETER JOY

Finally, God sometimes delays because he wants to make the answer so much the sweeter. God is devoted to making you as happy in him as you can be. And he knows that sometimes deeper joy lies on the other side of a long delay.

God wants you to look at answered prayers like Abraham and Sarah looked at Isaac, this son named laughter. They could hardly hold him or hear his voice without laughing, astonished at God’s goodness (Genesis 21:3–7). But they would not have laughed as they did if they hadn’t waited as they did. Theirs was a vintage joy, strong and well-aged. And so is ours when we pray and wait, pray and wait, and then finally find the answer.

What We Ask or Better

Alongside these good reasons for God’s delays, Müller rested his soul upon another mighty truth as he persisted in prayer: “Our heavenly Father never takes anything from His children” — or withholds anything from his children — “unless He means to give them something better” (Autobiography, 179). If God should never give you what you ask for, dear saint, he has something better in mind for you.

You may struggle to grasp how his no is better than his yes; you may need to wait till heaven to see clearly. But as surely as God gave up his Son for you, he will not give you worse than what you ask for (Romans 8:28; 32). In the life and death and resurrection of Jesus, he has already done the hardest and given the best. Now, the gospel assures you just how willing your Father is to “give good things to those who ask him” (Matthew 7:11).

Persistent prayer dies under the lie that God doesn’t like to give good things. He does like to give good things — the best things, gifts far better than we can ask or imagine. So, take your good desires, your God-honoring longings, and keep asking, keep seeking, keep knocking. Your Father invites you to do so. And if he says no, he will only give you something better.

Paul knows what he wants Philemon to do, but he chooses not to command it. Why? He wants something deeper than rote obedience: genuine love.

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I awoke in a dark wood. Spirits darted in the shadows, and death made easy prey of men.

How would anyone find the narrow path of safety in such an unbelieving world? Man, woman, and child stepped over the slain into the grave, one after another.

The Wood was named Without Hope and Without God. I heard the sighs, groans, and sobs of the Already Condemned. They moaned,

We hope for light, and behold, darkness,
     and for brightness, but we walk in gloom.
We grope for the wall like the blind;
     we grope like those who have no eyes;
we stumble at noon as in the twilight,
     among those in full vigor we are like dead men.
We all growl like bears;
     we moan and moan like doves;
we hope for justice, but there is none;
     for salvation, but it is far from us. (Isaiah 59:9–11)

How can such be saved?

“You are the light of the world,” a voice whispers through the trees. To whom does he speak?

Yes, now as I look closely, I can make out small breaks in the darkness. Three lights ahead act very strangely.

The first, a gentleman, Too Timid by name, had cloaked himself under a basket.

Me: Excuse me, sir, I believe the voice that spoke just now was perhaps speaking to you?

Too Timid: My dear fellow, you must have me confused. I am but a stump of the forest like any other in this Wood.

Me: But sir, though cloaked in a basket, I still see some rays peeking through the weave. This Wood needs light, sir. Will you not offer us any of yours?

Too Timid: I suppose you’re right. My Master has lit me and made me different from others, at least different from the one I used to be. Yes, maybe those words were meant for me.

Me: Very good, sir. Then let me remove this cumbersome basket from your back so you might be more useful for wanderers.

Too Timid: Unhand me, sir! I would shine brightly — I would — but if you only knew these wanderers in this desolate Wood and how they treat the light, you would never ask me to remove my basket. If they were agreeable to the light, I should flame as the sun, but these people hate the light and do not come to light lest their deeds be exposed. Instead, they abuse lamps, mock lanterns, and snuff out wicks — they are wicked. Perhaps the Master has other luminaries more daring. I’m sorry.

Traveling on, I see a second glob of light hidden behind a bush. A Mr. Too Modest is his name.

Me: Sir, I could not help but notice your dash of visibility in this world of midnight. But why, may I ask, are you crouched behind this bush? I saw a lampstand near the road a few paces back. If you climbed upon it, you should be mightily useful in this Wood. May I bring you to the higher seat?

Too Modest: I blush at your flattery, my good man, but I must decline.

Me: May I inquire why you would refuse to aid those dying in the darkness?

Too Modest: I am not after prominence, young man. Tempt me not with places of honor, for I have chosen the lowly place — here, behind this bush.

Me: You cannot go much lower than the ground, I suppose. But did you not hear that voice speak not too long ago, saying, “You are the light of the world”? Yet you appear but the light of this bush.

Too Modest: No long prayers on street corners for me — no sir. The best lights are not meant to be seen by men. My Father sees in secret, and there I shine for his eyes alone.

Me: But did not the voice go on to say that lamps ought not to be hidden behind bushes, but rather placed on a stand, so that they can give light to all in the area? “Let your light shine before others,” I believe it said. Should lamps hide from the eyes of those they are lit to bless?

Is it not more humble that one should shine as brightly as possible for the good of as many as possible, with the aim that all might see “and give glory to your Father who is in heaven”? Good works and words are for others’ good and another’s glory.

Too Modest: Nearly plausible, sir. I only hope for humble good for a humble few and concern myself not with elevation to any other seat. I would not presume myself to be any sort of blessing to the many. Planted in the soil behind this bush, I remain low, if not useful. Men exalted are men endangered. Good night.

Lost in thought and tripping over the tombstones, I came to the third light, a candle called Lord Too Lazy.

Me: Sir, I am delighted to have found you in a proper place! I had a rather odd conversation with one unwilling to take his stand. That said, may I ask why you burn so slightly? To be frank, I did not know anyone could flicker so faintly and still burn. I could hardly perceive you from a distance, and even standing close, I see more smoke than flame. May I fan you from this smolder?

Too Lazy: No, my dear boy, rest and relaxation is most strategic in the end. Others spark and flash — and fall, like shooting stars. They burn out because they blaze too quickly and glow far beyond wisdom’s moderation.

Me: But sir, you seem all but extinguished. What of others’ good?

Too Lazy: To the eyes of the overly ambitious and legalistic, a sufficient flame always looks spent and sooty. These expect a man to volunteer to be quickly consumed, soon a melted puddle of wax, for “the good of others.” Candles are not meant to burn themselves out or diminish into nubs. No. I shall not exert myself to death even for the good of others. The good I offer is a flicker, long living.

I did not get to respond because just then I awoke out of that dim land.

The Bible still lay open before me on my desk:

You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven. (Matthew 5:14–16)

God fulfills his purpose for the church by his work in the church: He magnifies his grace by beautifying his people.

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Before I became a missionary, I assumed missionaries were supposed to be super-saints — un-caped crusaders faithfully following God anywhere and everywhere. I (almost) imagined them arriving on the field with a voice from heaven introducing them: “Holier than your local pastor. More powerful than a legion of demons. Able to speak the gospel in many languages. It’s the missionary!”

I knew that missionaries — even greats like William Carey, Lottie Moon, and Jim Elliot — were sinful humans like me, but I found it easy to suppose they had entered a higher level of spiritual life that equipped them for the powerful things God did through them. I doubt I’m the only one to think that way.

The church I grew up in did a wonderful job emphasizing the importance of missions, but it also tended to aggrandize the work of missionaries in a way that made them seem spiritually elite. Similarly, many of the missionary biographies I read deeply edified me by recounting their unique callings, significant challenges, and fruitful legacies, but they often seemed to be missing a chapter on how missionaries were fallen humans who continued to struggle with sin even as they ministered. It wasn’t until my own calling to become a missionary that I came to grips with a surprising fact: Of all the significant challenges missionaries face in seeking to minister the gospel in unreached places, our own indwelling sin might be the biggest challenge of all.

Sin Doesn’t Stay Home

I didn’t expect to become instantly holier when I first committed to serve as a missionary. My wife and I sensed a call to minister to an unreached people group in Asia, and the Lord led us to an amazing ministry. I knew that I still struggled with sin, but I think I hoped to grow into the super-saint image I had of a missionary. So, I was genuinely surprised to find that my battles with sin and temptation actually got harder instead of easier. In retrospect, however, this makes perfect sense.

Moving across cultures is stressful, and people tend to struggle with sin more under stress. The process inevitably includes loss and sadness, and people often cope with emotional weariness through sinful means. On top of that, missionaries normally leave situations of robust spiritual support (like good Christian friends and strong churches) to serve in places that lack such community (or where a language barrier prohibits access). Missionaries sign up to minister in these kinds of situations, but it means we face greater spiritual darkness and spiritual warfare with fewer resources, more emotional weariness, and more stress than ever before.

It is always discouraging to be confronted with one’s sin, but things get even messier if a missionary feels inner or outer pressure to be a super-saint. When anyone sins, we know that Jesus is our advocate, and we know that, when we confess our sins, God is “faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). But it is common for missionaries to feel like they need to pretend, hide, or perform so as not to let others down (back home or on the field).

Ugliness Exposed

I would like to say this struggle with sin as a missionary is a temporary issue that only rookies undergo. However, after years of serving as a missionary, working with other missionaries, and leading missionaries, I can confidently confirm that the battle with sin does not cease.

Cultural stress can still spark anger in our hearts. Anxiety can still cripple us — and not just in situations when our lives are in danger but sometimes for no apparent reason at all. There are still regular temptations toward animosity with colleagues, irritability with national partners, and impatience with sending organizations. Marriage struggles don’t disappear either; they often feel amplified. Parenting struggles don’t go away; they get more complex. And envy, perhaps the greatest temptation facing missionaries, can emerge even after years of faithful service, when others seem successful and we do not.

It’s not that becoming a missionary makes people sin; rather, as John Owen writes, “Temptations and occasions put nothing into a man, but only draw out what was in him before” (Works, 6:169). The challenges of serving as a missionary expose sins that might otherwise have stayed hidden in less challenging settings. Seeing this ugliness in our hearts may lead us to exclaim with the apostle Paul, “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:24).

He Saves and Sanctifies

However, neither mission senders nor goers need be discouraged by this reality. Yes, serving as a missionary (like serving as a pastor or deacon) requires a measure of spiritual maturity, and churches are wise to discern which men and women are qualified for the task. But God does not expect missionaries to be super-saints. Instead, he calls them to cherish the very gospel they proclaim.

The chapter missing from many missionary biographies could be titled, “Missions Is Sanctification,” revealing missions as one of the most powerful means of holiness a Christian can enjoy this side of eternity. Missionaries may find themselves struggling more with sin rather than less, but God delights to use missions to draw them closer, inviting them to relish the goodness and power of his gospel.

Paul assures us “that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6). God always finishes what he starts, and he cares about the sanctification of the missionary as well as the salvation of the unreached. And in God’s marvelous and wise providence, he chose to knit these two together so that even as a missionary seeks to evangelize, God works to sanctify the missionary and deliver him from indwelling sin.

Missionaries need the gospel too, and when they hear and respond with repentance and faith, they make Jesus look even greater and more glorious. They declare with the psalmist, “My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever” (Psalm 73:26).