Rethinking the Threefold Use of the Law: A Biblical Challenge to a Historic Framework

If you’ve been around Reformed theology for any length of time, then you’ve almost certainly heard of the “threefold use of the law.” For many in the Reformed community, it’s as familiar as the Five Solas or even the TULIP acronym. And so if you are familiar with this, then you would know that the threefold use of the law is often presented as a sturdy framework for understanding how God’s law operates across time, covenants, and human history. And according to this view, the law functions in three ways: to restrain evil in civil society, to reveal sin and drive us to Christ, and to guide believers in holy living. It’s been taught from pulpits, codified in confessions, and even handed down with the kind of reverence usually reserved for the creeds. But here’s the question I want us to consider today: is it biblical?

Now before I explore that question, let me be clear right from the outset—I am not interested in tearing down the house of Reformed theology. In fact, I deeply admire its courage in defending justification by faith alone and its unapologetic reverence for the holiness of God. The Reformers were theological giants, and the threefold use of the law was one of their attempts to make sense of Scripture in the aftermath of Roman Catholic distortion and Anabaptist radicalism. And to be fair: that’s no small task, and they should be honored for trying. But, at the same time, trying to protect the glory of God doesn’t automatically mean they got the method right. We owe them our gratitude, not our blind loyalty. There’s a difference, and it’s wise that we remember that.

And so the central question this blog post raises is not whether God’s law is holy. Of course it is. Rather the question that we are wrestling with is about whether or not this three-part division—moral, civil, ceremonial—and its three uses—pedagogical, civil, and normative—can actually withstand biblical scrutiny. And whether, in trying to guard God’s righteousness, it might have unintentionally obscured something even more glorious: the unfolding of His redemptive plan through covenant history.

See, we live in a time when the confusion about the law runs rampant. There are some Christians who try to keep the Sabbath while ignoring the food laws. There are others who try to cling to the Ten Commandments but bristle at stoning adulterers. And still there are others who reject the Mosaic law entirely, assuming it has nothing to say to them. Meanwhile, the theonomist and the Torah observant Christian step into the vacuum with bold—and deeply flawed—claims of consistency. And so the question that I and so many others have wrestled with is this: why is the Church so divided on this issue? Why are so many pastors confused about how to disciple their congregations in righteousness? And why do we keep reaching for Moses when we should be clinging to Christ?

And so it’s about time that we take a step back. Not to throw stones, but to ask hard questions. Not to assume tradition equals truth, but to dig deep into the Scriptures. See, I understand that the threefold use of the law may be familiar, respected, and even well-intentioned—but that doesn’t make it untouchable. If it’s not biblically grounded, then it needs to be challenged. Period. And if it falls apart under pressure, then we need to be brave enough to admit it.

The Appeal of the Threefold Division

Now, there’s a reason why the threefold use of the law has endured for centuries—and that’s because it kind of makes sense. At least on the surface. It offers a tidy framework in a theological landscape that can otherwise feel overwhelming. It attempts to resolve one of the most pressing questions in Christian discipleship: What role does the Old Testament law play in the life of a believer? And its answer is simple: God’s law has three uses. First, it acts as a curb to restrain evil through civil enforcement. Second, it functions as a mirror to expose sin and drive us to Christ. And third, it becomes a guide to instruct believers in righteousness.

Who wouldn’t want that kind of clarity?

And so for many, the categories seem biblically plausible. After all, doesn’t Paul say the law reveals sin (Rom. 3:20)? Doesn’t God establish governments to restrain evil (Rom. 13:1–4)? Doesn’t Jesus command us to teach disciples to obey all that He’s commanded (Matt. 28:20)? The framework seems to account for all of this. It seems to give believers a way to talk about the value of the law without collapsing back into legalism—or falling off the cliff into lawlessness.

And what’s even more compelling is the internal motivation behind it: a zeal for holiness and a desire to uphold God’s moral standards. And to be honest, that should never be dismissed. In an age where churches are increasingly allergic to words like obedience, sin, and judgment, the Reformed tradition has stood as a bulwark. And so in a sense, the threefold use of the law isn’t just a doctrinal formula—it’s an attempt to preserve the weight of God’s righteousness and the necessity of Christian virtue. And for that, it deserves respect.

But here’s the problem: theological neatness doesn’t automatically guarantee biblical truth. Just because something works logically doesn’t mean it was intended covenantally. Just because a framework explains certain verses doesn’t mean it accounts for the entire storyline of Scripture. And just because it guards against error doesn’t mean it guards in the right or even the best way.

I believe this really becomes apparent when we look at the first use—the civil use of the law. Even among those who reject theonomy, this use creates a significant dilemma. They say the civil law of Moses is no longer binding, but still somehow morally instructive for modern governments. But what does that actually mean in practice? Should we look to the stoning of rebellious children for insight on family policy? Should we revisit Israel’s debt-slavery codes to inform our economic ethics? I understand that they say, “Use it as a guide,” but the problem is that they rarely—if ever—explain how. Instead, the result is a fog of theological ambiguity where the law is no longer binding yet still somehow useful, expired yet still instructive. And so by opting for this ambiguity, that then opens the door for a more radical form of consistency.

This is exactly where theonomists step in and press their advantage. And at least they’re honest about the implications. They see the selective borrowing and ask, “If you’re already treating the Mosaic civil law as a moral guide, why not go all in?” Now, don't get me wrong: they’re still wrong—but at least they’re more logically coherent. And until the non-theonomic camp can explain why stoning laws, property boundaries, and Old Covenant penalties are morally expired while the rest of the law is still ethically instructive, then I’m sorry to admit this, but the theonomists will keep winning the consistency argument—even if they lose the biblical one.

And so we must ask ourselves: where did this framework actually come from in the first place? Because it wasn’t from Paul. It wasn’t from Jesus. It wasn’t even from Moses. Rather It was Calvin who first clearly systematized it, though the instincts behind it go back even further. And once codified, it became part of Reformed tradition, not because it was exegetically demanded—but because it was catechetically useful. And that distinction is critical. See, a tool might be helpful in clarifying—but it still may be harmful in interpreting.

So before we press deeper into critique, I want to pause and give credit where it’s due. The threefold division is not malicious. Rather it was birthed in a theological battlefield, forged as a weapon to fight both Rome’s legalism and the libertinism of radical reformers. It served a purpose. But now we must ask: does it serve the text?

Because usefulness and truth are not the same thing. And if the threefold framework is built more on historical necessity than on biblical fidelity, then we need to be brave enough to challenge it. Not because we’re against holiness, but because we’re for covenantal clarity. Because we don’t just want to be right—we want to be biblical.

The Biblical Problem—The Law as a Unit

Now, the moment we open our Bibles instead of our systematic theologies, a serious problem emerges with respect to the threefold use of the law formulation: Scripture never treats the Mosaic law as three independent categories. The division into moral, civil, and ceremonial laws is foreign to the text. It’s not in Exodus. It’s not in Leviticus. It’s not in Paul. It’s not even in the words of Jesus. Instead, what we see—repeatedly—is the law described as a unified whole, a covenantal package, not a buffet line of obligations from which we get to pick and choose.

Take James 2:10, for example: “For whoever keeps the whole law but fails in one point has become guilty of all of it.” Do you see how that’s not the language of compartmentalization? Rather that’s the language of covenant. Or look at Paul in Galatians 5:3: “I testify again to every man who accepts circumcision that he is obligated to keep the whole law.” Circumcision here isn’t just about a ritual—it’s a symbol of accepting the entire Mosaic legal code. Paul’s point is devastatingly clear: when you put yourself under any part of the Mosaic law as a covenant, then you are obligated to keep all of it.

And to be honest, this makes sense when we remember that the law wasn’t just some random set of divine instructions to begin with—rather it was a covenantal document. In Deuteronomy 4:13, Moses tells the people: “He declared to you his covenant, which he commanded you to perform, that is, the Ten Commandments.” The Ten Commandments were the covenant. It wasn’t merely a moral summary of it. Or even a separate thing floating above it. Rather they were written on tablets of stone, placed inside the ark of the covenant itself. That’s why Paul, in 2 Corinthians 3:7–11, calls them the “ministry of death, carved in letters on stone.” That is not a throwaway phrase Paul is using. Rather he is referring directly to the Ten Commandments—and he says their glory is fading.

And yet, even with this being the case, defenders of the threefold use of the law treat the Ten Commandments as if they were transcendent moral truths unbound by covenant context. But Paul doesn’t do that. He doesn’t share the same view apparently. Instead, Paul treats the law as a single unit tied to a single covenant—a covenant that has now reached its fulfillment and is no longer binding. When Paul speaks of being “not under the law but under grace” (Rom. 6:14), he’s not referring to ceremonial rituals alone. He’s talking about the entire Mosaic framework.

And so to divide the law into moral, civil, and ceremonial parts is to cut apart what Scripture binds together. And more than that—it creates a theological illusion. It gives the impression that some parts of the law are eternal while others were merely temporary, when in fact, the whole thing was temporary by design. That’s why Hebrews 8:13 says the entire covenant is obsolete. Notice how he doesn’t say parts of it. Not “just” the ceremonies. But rather the whole covenant itself—which included moral, civil, and ceremonial laws—has been superseded by a better one.

See, the Reformed tradition, for all its passion to preserve the holiness of God, makes a critical mistake here. It fails to let covenantal structure interpret legal application. And when you strip laws from their covenantal context, you don’t preserve them—you mutate them. You turn the Ten Commandments from covenant stipulations given to Israel into abstract moral principles hovering above the narrative arc of Scripture. But the law doesn’t float like that. Rather it was embedded in a story. A covenantal story. And the story has moved forward.

The Logical Inconsistency—Which Laws Count as Moral?

And so if the law is a covenantal unit, then carving it into “moral,” “civil,” and “ceremonial” isn’t just theologically reckless—it’s actually logically unstable. Because the moment you start sorting the laws into categories, you run into a pressing question that the threefold model never adequately answers: Who decides which law goes where?

Take the Sabbath as an example. Is it moral because it’s in the Ten Commandments? Or is it ceremonial because Colossians 2:16 explicitly says not to let anyone judge you for Sabbath observance? See, the Reformed tradition will tell you it’s moral “in principle” but ceremonial “in form”—but that’s not an argument from Scripture; it’s a theological compromise designed to keep the Decalogue intact. Or take the laws on sexual purity in Leviticus. Are they moral because they regulate human conduct? Or civil because they carry legal penalties? Or ceremonial because they often speak of “clean” and “unclean” status? In truth, many of them are all three. So which one wins?

Well, that’s the problem: see, the categories overlap, because the law was never meant to be divided this way in the first place. The “moral” law is filled with ceremonial shadows. The “civil” laws are built on moral reasoning. The “ceremonial” laws often reflect social order and ethics. There is no clean, biblical knife that separates them. And so when you try to force one of the laws to fit in your neat categories, you actually end up making arbitrary decisions, importing assumptions that Scripture never affirms.

Worse yet, this division opens the door to theological cherry-picking. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen Christians appeal to the Ten Commandments when they want to affirm God’s standards for marriage or honesty, but at the same time, they quietly ignore the fact that the same Decalogue demands Sabbath-keeping and was given under a covenant now declared obsolete. Some want to keep the command against graven images but discard the instructions for how to deal with idolaters. Others want to retain laws on sexuality but dismiss laws on food, clothing, or menstrual purity—all of which appear in the same legal sections. It’s a theological game of moral dodgeball.

And that’s not just inconsistent—it’s dangerous. Because once you start deciding which laws are “moral enough” to preserve and which ones are “culturally irrelevant,” the standard becomes your intuition rather than God’s Word. It grants the interpreter the power to determine timelessness. And I’m sorry, but that is not exegesis—that is cafeteria covenantalism. It cloaks itself in reverence for the law, but it severs the law from the covenantal and redemptive framework that gives it meaning.

Paul never played this game. When he confronted the Galatians, he didn’t say, “You’re only returning to the ceremonial parts of the law, so it’s okay.” No—he said, “You who want to be justified by the law are severed from Christ” (Gal. 5:4). Even something as small as circumcision—often seen as purely ceremonial—was treated as a threat to the entire gospel. Why? Because to go back to any part of the law as binding is to submit again to the whole. You cannot dip your toe into Moses without being pulled under the water.

So this is where I want you to ask yourself: if Paul never split the law into three parts… if James warned that breaking one part means guilt for all… if Jesus fulfilled the Law, not just a part of it—what grounds do we have to pretend that these categories are biblical? The answer is uncomfortable but necessary: we don’t. These categories are man-made. And while they may appear to offer theological clarity, they instead create deep inconsistency. They leave us with a partial law, a selective standard, and a confused Church.

The Covenant Context They Miss

See, behind every law stands a covenant. And this is where the threefold use of the law collapses under the weight of its own oversight—it misses the covenantal architecture that supports the entire biblical narrative. It treats the law as if it floats above redemptive history, a timeless grid of divine expectation, rather than what it actually is: the legal code of a specific covenant, given to a specific people, for a specific time.

That covenant, of course, is the Old Covenant—the one made at Sinai between God and Israel, sealed with blood, administered through priests, and engraved on stone. The law is not just attached to that covenant—it is that covenant. “He declared to you his covenant… the Ten Commandments” (Deut. 4:13). You don’t get the law without the covenant, and you don’t get the covenant without the law. It’s a package deal.

Which is exactly why the New Testament treats the Mosaic law—not just parts of it—as something that has come to its intended end. Hebrews 8:13 is unflinching about this. It says: “In speaking of a new covenant, he makes the first one obsolete. And what is becoming obsolete and growing old is ready to vanish away.” Now, the key question that we have to ask ourselves is this: what was made obsolete? Was it just the ceremonial law? The civil law? Or the moral law? The answer is none of them individually—but rather all of the above because the Mosaic law was the entire Mosaic covenant. See, you cannot say the covenant is obsolete while clinging to the legal demands that gave it structure. That would be like claiming your marriage is over but insisting the vows are still binding. Do you see how confusing that is?

The Reformed tradition—again, with the best of intentions—tries to preserve the moral law by lifting it out of its covenantal context. But in doing so, it strips the law of the very thing that gave it meaning. It detaches God’s commands from the covenantal story of Israel, from the tabernacle, the sacrifices, the land, the priesthood, the calendar—all of which were covenantal threads woven together into a single fabric. But the law was never meant to be an abstract ethical code—rather it was a relational contract, a covenantal constitution if you will.

This is why Paul is so adamant in 2 Corinthians 3. He doesn’t just speak about the Mosaic law generally—he speaks specifically of the ministry of death, carved in letters on stone (v. 7). That’s the Ten Commandments. And what does he say about them? He says that they were glorious—but are now fading. That they brought condemnation. That they are being surpassed by a new ministry, one of the Spirit, “who gives life.” Do you see how the transition Paul sees is not from “civil to ceremonial” or from “moral to spiritual”? But rather it is from old covenant to new covenant. Period.

And what’s written on the heart in the new covenant is not just a copy and paste version of the old code—but rather it’s something transformed. Jeremiah 31:33 doesn’t say God will write the Law of Moses on our hearts. It says, “I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts.” That law is fulfilled in Christ (Matt. 5:17), empowered by the Spirit (Rom. 8:2), and summarized not in 613 statutes, but in the law of love (Gal. 5:14). It is called the law of Christ (Gal. 6:2), which is not the law of Moses. And so the moment we start to confuse the two, we actually begin to rob the cross of its covenantal climax.

See, the threefold model cannot account for this covenantal shift. It tries to bring the stone tablets of Sinai across the threshold into the new covenant—as if Moses belongs in the house that Jesus built. But Moses himself would protest. He knew the covenant he mediated was temporary. That's why he longed for the day when God would circumcise the hearts of His people (Deut. 30:6), when the prophet greater than himself would come (Deut. 18:15). And, my friends, I’m here to tell you that day has come. His name is Jesus. And He didn’t come to tweak the law—He came to fulfill it and replace the covenant it upheld with something far more glorious.

And so if the law is covenantal, and the covenant has changed, then the law—at least in the form given to Israel—has changed too. And it is not abolished in the sense of being discarded as evil, but fulfilled in the sense of being completed, transformed, and surpassed. The old has gone. The new has come.

What They Got Right—But Where They Went Too Far

Now, again, to be fair, the Reformed tradition wasn’t wrong to emphasize the goodness of the law. In a world where cheap grace has neutered holiness and churches are more afraid of legalism than they are of sin, the Reformers stood tall. They pushed back against both antinomianism and Rome’s sacramental treadmill, insisting that God’s law reveals His character and teaches us our desperate need for grace. And so I want to be clear in affirming that’s true, and it needs to be said again and again. God is holy. His moral expectations do not change. The human heart is still deceitful. And the law exposes that rot like a floodlight in a dark room.

But here’s where I believe they went too far: see, in their attempt to preserve morality, they unfortunately misunderstood redemptive movement. They tried to protect God’s character by preserving part of Moses. But they failed to realize that preserving Moses is not the same as proclaiming Christ.

Take John Calvin, for example. In his Institutes, he writes beautifully of the law as a mirror to our sin and a guide to holiness. But Calvin, like many after him, assumed that the Ten Commandments function as a trans-covenantal moral code, always binding in substance, even if not in form. That assumption shaped confessions, catechisms, and pulpits for centuries. But the assumption isn’t drawn from Paul. It’s drawn from theological necessity. It feels right, so it must be. Right?

But that’s not how biblical theology works. We don’t preserve God’s standards by reaching back to a previous covenant—we do it by understanding how that covenant has been fulfilled, transformed, and surpassed in Christ. We do it by letting the storyline of Scripture, not the systems of man, guide our thinking.

Even contemporary defenders of the threefold use—like R.C. Sproul (who I absolutely love) or Sinclair Ferguson—recognize that some parts of the Mosaic law are gone. But they say the “moral law” remains. Why? Because it reflects God’s unchanging character. And again, I understand how that sounds noble. But again—who decided which laws reflect God’s character? The ones that make it into our church posters? The ones we can easily justify in modern culture? What about the ones that offend us? What about the commands that seem harsh or ceremonial or strange? Where is the inspired list that tells us what’s moral, what’s civil, and what’s ceremonial?

You won’t find it. Because Scripture doesn’t give you one.

This is where the Reformed instinct to preserve God’s holiness becomes its own kind of error—not because it exalts holiness too highly, but because it fails to see how holiness is now defined in Christ. It’s not that they asked the wrong questions. It’s that they stopped too soon. They asked, “How do we preserve the law’s moral witness?”—a good question! But they didn’t follow the answer through the doorway of covenantal fulfillment. They didn’t stop long enough to realize that the law’s moral witness was always meant to point to Christ—not just as the Savior who keeps it for us, but as the one who redefines what covenantal faithfulness looks like on the other side of the resurrection.

That’s why Paul never says, “Live by the Ten Commandments.” He says, “Walk by the Spirit” (Gal. 5:16). He says, “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Gal. 6:2). He calls us new creations—not law-keepers but Spirit-filled heirs of a better covenant, with better promises (Heb. 8:6), and a better mediator (Heb. 8:6), and a better law written not on stone but on hearts (2 Cor. 3:3).

So yes, the Reformers got much right. But they also missed something vital. In their effort to guard the gospel against lawlessness, they, sad to say, inadvertently built a backdoor for legalism. They handed us a patchwork covenant—part Moses, part Christ. And in doing so, they blurred the very lines that the New Testament draws so clearly. They tried to preserve righteousness. But righteousness has a name. And it’s not Moses.

The Fruit of This Error—Confusion in Modern Discipleship

The consequences of the threefold division aren’t just academic. They show up in real pulpits, real classrooms, and real lives. And they show up in the form of confusion. Deep, theological confusion. The kind that leaves believers asking questions their pastors can’t answer with consistency. “Do I still have to keep the Sabbath?” “What about tithing?” “Is eating pork a sin?” “Why do we quote the Ten Commandments but ignore other laws from the same covenant?” These aren’t fringe questions—they’re symptoms of a theological system that taught people to divide what Scripture never divided and carry over what Christ fulfilled.

New Christians are often handed the Ten Commandments as their moral compass, but they’re never told that the Sabbath was the sign of the Mosaic covenant (Ex. 31:13–17), nor that Paul explicitly says we are not to let anyone judge us regarding Sabbath days (Col. 2:16–17). Then they’re taught that God’s moral law never changes—except when it comes to the Sabbath, of course. Or circumcision. Or sacrifices. Or priesthood. Or festivals. Or Levitical purity laws. Suddenly the “unchanging moral law” doesn’t look so unchanging—it looks suspiciously edited.

And sadly enough, this confusion only deepens when you factor in movements like the Hebrew Roots Movement and Torah observant Christianity. These groups prey on the inconsistency of the threefold model. They say, “If the Ten Commandments still apply, then so do the feasts. If you keep the Sabbath, why not the dietary laws?” And here’s the terrifying part—they sound more consistent than we do. They may be wrong, but they’re wrong with logic. Because the minute we say, “Well, we keep the moral law but not the civil or ceremonial,” we’ve already conceded the ground that Scripture never gave us permission to stand on.

And then, on the other side of the spectrum, we see the rise of modern theonomy. Christians insisting that civil governments must enforce Old Testament law—including punishments—because God’s law is unchanging. And once again, they’re just drawing conclusions from a flawed foundation. If the moral law still applies, and the civil laws are just moral law applied to society, then why shouldn’t governments enforce them? Theonomy is the natural offspring of the threefold use. It takes the logic to its next (and frightening) step.

Meanwhile, churches limp along, teaching moralism under the name of grace, discipleship that smells like legalism, and sanctification frameworks that are confused about whether the Spirit leads or the law commands. Preachers tell people to walk by the Spirit, but then hand them stone tablets as if their congregation knows the difference. We tell believers that the law is written on their hearts, but then act like Moses is still holding the pen.

This is not harmless. This is confusion. And God is not the author of confusion.

The church desperately needs clarity. Not just doctrinal precision—but covenantal awareness. We don’t need to ditch the law—we need to understand what law governs us now. We need to ask what it means that Jesus fulfilled the law, not just obeyed it. We need to stop smuggling old covenant laws into new covenant living and calling it holiness. Because if we keep trying to disciple the people of Christ using the categories of Moses, we will never see the maturity, joy, or freedom that Jesus purchased for us on the cross.

It’s time to break the cycle. It’s time to trade our theological patchwork quilt for something better—something more biblical.

A Better Question

Look, at the end of the day, the real question isn’t “Which parts of the law still apply?” That’s the wrong starting point. That’s the question we ask when we’ve already assumed the law is some abstract, eternal code floating above covenants and time, waiting to be chopped up and reassembled into a manageable system. That’s the question we ask when we forget that the law was never a floating system—it was a covenantal code bound to a covenant people, embedded in a redemptive story that was always heading somewhere.

I believe the better question is this: What covenant are we under? And what law flows from that covenant?

Because if we are in Christ, we are not in Moses. If we are under grace, we are not under law (Rom. 6:14). And if the covenant has changed, then the legal structure attached to that covenant must change with it. And no—that’s not lawlessness. That’s actually biblical faithfulness. That’s covenantal maturity.

So please, let’s stop pretending the Ten Commandments are the eternal rule of life for all people, when Scripture never says that. Let’s stop deciding what counts as moral based on our instincts or Reformed tradition, instead of letting redemptive history speak for itself. Let’s stop handing people Moses when we’ve been given Christ.

This doesn’t mean we throw out the Old Testament. On the contrary—we need it now more than ever. But we need to read it the way Jesus taught us to: as pointing to Him (Luke 24:27). We don’t discard the law; we recognize its role as a tutor (Gal. 3:24)—a tutor whose job is finished once Christ has come. We don’t try to resurrect a covenant that God Himself declared obsolete (Heb. 8:13). We celebrate that we are now under a better covenant, with a better mediator, and a better law written not on tablets of stone, but on hearts transformed by the Spirit of God (2 Cor. 3:3–11).

The threefold use of the law may have helped the church resist antinomianism. It may have provided a temporary scaffolding for moral reflection. But it is not the final word. And it is not the biblical framework. It served a purpose. But the time has come to move beyond it—not because we despise the law, but because we love the gospel too much to let Moses linger where only Christ belongs.

So now, we pivot. If the threefold use of the law doesn’t hold, then what does? What law governs the believer under the new covenant? What does it mean to walk by the Spirit, fulfill the law of Christ, and love God and neighbor in a way that is no longer tethered to Sinai?

That’s the question we’ll tackle next.

Resources to Consider

1. “The End of the Law: Mosaic Covenant in Pauline Theology” by Jason C. Meyer

2. “40 Questions About Christians and Biblical Law” by Thomas R. Schreiner

3. “A Theology of Paul and His Letters (or for a shorter read: Five Views on Law and Gospel)” by Douglas J. Moo