Faith as an Organon Leptikon 

J. Neil Daniels

The Reformers often described faith as a beggar’s empty hand, a striking image captured in the phrase organon leptikon. Faith, they insisted, is not something we produce; it contributes nothing to our justification. It does not strive, calculate, or earn. It simply reaches out, wide-eyed and unworthy, to receive the gift God freely offers. Paul makes this crystal clear in Romans 4:5 (LSB): “But to the one who does not work, but believes in him who justifies the ungodly, his faith is counted as righteousness.” There’s a certain scandal in that, isn’t there? That God’s grace does not wait for us to tidy up our lives, but comes to us in our mess.

This imagery is more than a quaint metaphor; it’s rooted deeply in Scripture. Consider Jesus’ words in Matthew 18:3: “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Children don’t calculate their worth or earn their place—they receive. Faith, the Reformers said, is the spiritual equivalent: empty, humble, and utterly dependent. Luther loved this image because it underscored the utter helplessness of the sinner and the all-sufficiency of Christ. Faith is not a ladder we climb; it is the hand that God fills.

Historically, this notion runs through the writings of the early Reformers. John Calvin, in his Institutes of the Christian Religion, emphasizes that faith is a passive instrument, receiving righteousness from Christ as the sole mediator: “We say that faith justifies, not because it merits righteousness for us by its own worth, but because it is an instrument whereby we obtain freely the righteousness of Christ.” Similarly, Martin Luther, reflecting on Romans 1:17, notes: “I began to understand that the righteousness of God is that by which the righteous lives by a gift of God, namely by faith.” Faith as a beggar’s hand captures the paradox of grace—it is weakness that is strengthened, emptiness that overflows.

It’s easy to nod along to this in theory, but living it out feels absurd. We are wired to earn, to prove, to calculate, and yet God asks us simply to trust, to extend our empty hand and take what we cannot merit. Every time we do, we reenact the scandal of the gospel. And maybe that’s why the Reformers loved the image: it is vivid, visceral, and a little uncomfortable—just like grace itself. Faith is absurdly simple, ridiculously freeing, and entirely, wonderfully God’s.