The Sevenfold Use of the Law of Moses for the New Covenant Christian: A Better Framework for a Better Covenant

How Should Christians Relate to the Law of Moses? That question has stood at the crossroads of some of the fiercest theological debates in church history—and I’m not being hyperbolic. From the lecture halls of top-tier seminaries to the living rooms of everyday believers, few topics have stirred more confusion, more division, and more earnest inquiry than this one. And yet, in all the centuries since the question first arose, it seems many are no closer to a consistent, biblically faithful answer than when the conversation began.

Walk into almost any church today and ask ten Christians whether we should still keep the Ten Commandments, the Sabbath, or the dietary laws—and chances are you’ll get ten different answers. Some will say, “Yes, of course. That’s the moral law—it’s eternal!” Others will recoil and insist, “No way. We’re under grace, not law!” One believer might tithe religiously yet eat pork without hesitation, while another avoids bacon but never thinks twice about working on Saturday. The only thing most seem to agree on is that we’re all confused.

Historically, the dominant Protestant response—especially in the Reformed tradition—has been to lean on the threefold division of the law: moral, civil, and ceremonial. The idea is simple enough: the ceremonial and civil laws were tied to Israel and have passed away, but the moral law—typically equated with the Ten Commandments—is eternal and still binding. (Now, to be fair, the theonomist might protest when it comes to the civil law, but we’ll save that for another post.)

At first glance, this framework seems both elegant and satisfying. It appears to uphold God’s holiness without dragging Christians back under the yoke of the old covenant. In theory, it offers the best of both worlds. But here’s the problem: it’s not biblical.

Yes, the threefold division may be tidy in theory. But when tested against the fabric of redemptive history and the contours of covenantal theology, it simply doesn’t hold. The fundamental issue is this: it divides what Scripture treats as a unified whole, and it binds the believer to what Christ has already fulfilled.

Once you see that the threefold division fractures the law in ways the Bible never does, a new and urgent question immediately rises: If we’re not under the Law of Moses, then what do we do with it? Do we throw it out? Ignore it? Treat it as irrelevant? Was Marcion right to claim the God of the Old Testament doesn’t belong in the faith of Jesus?

Absolutely not.

This isn’t about rejecting the Old Testament. It’s not about dishonoring the law or diminishing Yahweh’s holiness. This is about rightly dividing the Word of truth. It’s about honoring the covenantal context of the Mosaic Law while submitting fully to the authority of Christ, who has fulfilled it (Matt. 5:17). The Old Covenant is called “old” not because it was evil, but because it was preparatory and temporary. Now that the promised Messiah has come, the covenant given at Sinai has reached its God-ordained expiration. And that means we need a new, better framework for understanding how the Mosaic Law still speaks to the people of God today.

That’s why I’m proposing a different approach—not as something I’ve invented, but as something I’ve synthesized and expanded. Over the years, I’ve learned from faithful scholars like Peter Gentry and Stephen Wellum (Kingdom Through Covenant), Douglas Moo (A Theology of Paul and His Letters), and D.A. Carson (his essay The End of the Law in From Sabbath to Lord’s Day). These men have already laid the groundwork for a more biblically consistent framework—one that’s covenantally sound and pastorally rich. All I’ve done is bring those insights together and develop them further into what I believe is a more faithful and theologically grounded model.

I call it: The Seven Uses of the Law of Moses for the New Covenant Christian.

Unlike the traditional threefold use, this framework doesn’t treat the Law as a timeless legal code to be dissected into reusable parts. It treats it for what it truly is: a covenantal body of literature—divinely inspired, historically rooted, theologically profound. In this model, the Mosaic Law is no longer binding for those in Christ, but neither is it useless. It is fulfilled, but it is still filled with meaning.

So let’s walk through this together—not just to win a theological argument, but to see the glory of Christ, the wisdom of God, and the beauty of His unfolding redemptive plan. These are the seven uses of the Mosaic Law that still matter—not for justification, not for sanctification under the Law, but for gospel clarity, doctrinal depth, and Spirit-empowered wisdom.

The Typological Use – The Law as Shadow That Points to Christ

Alright, so let’s be honest—if you’ve ever tried to read straight through the Torah, you’ve probably felt the tension between the old and new covenant. I’ve known so many believers who start strong in Genesis, their imaginations captured by creation, covenant, and patriarchal drama. Exodus keeps the momentum going—burning bushes, plagues, Red Sea crossings. But then they hit Leviticus, and suddenly it’s like slamming into a brick wall. Now all they see are endless sacrifices, purification rituals, priestly garments, sacred festivals, and dietary restrictions. And the question naturally arises: What does any of this have to do with following Jesus?

That’s the exact question the typological use of the Law is meant to answer. It helps us see how the rituals, offices, and ordinances of the Mosaic covenant were not random religious requirements, but God-ordained previews of Christ and His redemptive work. It answers the question, “How do the symbols and shadows of the Old Covenant point to the substance of the New?” In this use, the Law is not a dead set of rules—it’s a prophetic drama. It doesn’t show us what to imitate, but what to behold. It allows us to see Christ in the tabernacle, the priesthood, the sacrifices, the feasts, and the washings—and in doing so, it makes the Old Testament come alive as part of the gospel’s unfolding story.

Now, if you’ve never heard the term typology, here’s what it means: typology is a theological method of interpreting Scripture in which certain people, events, or institutions in the Old Testament are understood as types—intentional, God-ordained foreshadowings—of greater realities fulfilled in the New Testament. These aren’t random parallels or loose analogies. They are divinely crafted patterns pointing forward to Christ and His redemptive work. Typology affirms that Scripture is a unified story: the Old Testament conceals in shadow what the New Testament reveals in substance. That’s the key idea—shadow and substance. The Law was the silhouette. Christ is the figure casting it.

Think about it. The sacrifices, the priesthood, the tabernacle, the feast days, the purification laws—every one of them reveals something about who Jesus is and what He would do. These weren’t eternal religious duties. They were temporary, illustrative, and forward-looking by design. They were never the final revelation. They were always meant to point to someone greater.

And this isn’t a theological novelty. This is exactly how the New Testament teaches us to read the Old. In Colossians 2:16–17, Paul tells Gentile believers not to let anyone judge them for refusing to observe festivals, new moons, or Sabbaths. Why? Because “these are a shadow of the things to come, but the substance belongs to Christ.” Paul doesn’t call these things bad. He doesn’t say they weren’t from God. He simply says they were shadows—temporary signs pointing to the real thing. And now that the real thing has come, those signs are no longer binding.

The author of Hebrews makes the same point. In Hebrews 8:5, he describes the Levitical priests as serving “a copy and shadow of the heavenly things.” The tabernacle was never the ultimate dwelling place of God—it was a model of a greater, heavenly reality. And in Hebrews 10:1, he writes, “The law has but a shadow of the good things to come instead of the true form of these realities.” The law was real, yes—but it was never the point. It was scaffolding. And now that the building—Christ—has come, the scaffolding has served its purpose.

Even Jesus affirms this directly. In Luke 24:44, after His resurrection, He tells His disciples that “everything written about me in the Law of Moses and the Prophets and the Psalms must be fulfilled.” He doesn’t say the Law was just moral instruction—He says it spoke of Him. That’s the heart of typology. The Law was a Christ-centered drama written in symbols, rituals, and offices, all pointing forward to the Messiah.

And this is what makes the typological use of the Law so powerful for believers today. We don’t need to reenact the Old Covenant system—and in fact, doing so would dishonor the One it was pointing to. You don’t cling to a shadow when the Person walks into the room. That’s not reverence. That’s regression. But neither do we ignore the shadow. No—we study it. We meditate on it. We let it enlarge our vision of Christ. The blood of lambs teaches us the cost of atonement. The high priest shows us the power of intercession. The tabernacle reveals God’s desire to dwell with His people. Every law is like a stained-glass window that refracts the beauty of the gospel.

So when we treat the ceremonial law typologically—not as a binding code, but as prophetic design—we honor both the covenant it came from and the Savior it pointed to. This is exactly what Torah Observant Christians often miss. They think that to love the Law is to live under it. But the apostles didn’t read the Law legalistically. They read it prophetically. And so should we.

This is why the typological use isn’t just fascinating—it’s essential. Without it, the Torah becomes either a museum of outdated rituals or a burden to reimpose. But when we see it through the lens of Christ, it becomes a vibrant mosaic of grace, building anticipation into every page of redemptive history. And all of it finds its fulfillment—not in our obedience to Torah, but in the once-for-all obedience of Jesus. That’s the power of this use. That’s the beauty of shadows giving way to substance.

The Convictional Use – The Law as Exposure of Sin and Need for Grace

Now, to be honest, there’s something about human nature that resists being told we’re wrong. Trust me—I hate it when people call me out too. And if you’re anything like me, we tend to minimize, justify, and excuse our sin instead of dealing with it head on. We create exceptions. We look for loopholes. But the Law of Moses doesn’t let us do that. In a sense, it stares straight into the soul and rips the mask off. And it doesn’t just expose our failure to do the right things externally—it exposes the heart. That’s exactly what it was meant to do. It was meant to be convictional. And that’s what it continues to do even today.

So what question does this use of the Law answer? Simply put: “How does God open our eyes to the seriousness of our sin and our need for grace?” The convictional use of the Law shows us who we really are when no one else is watching. It holds up a mirror and confronts us with the unflinching standard of God’s holiness—not to shame us into despair, but to strip away our delusions of self-righteousness. Without it, sin stays vague and grace stays shallow. But through it, the gravity of our condition—and the glory of the cross—come into sharp focus.

You see, the reason many Christians wrestle with this role of the Law is because they assume the only two options are legal obedience or complete irrelevance. But the beauty of the convictional use of the Law is that it’s neither. It’s not about placing believers back under condemnation—because, as we know, in Christ there is no condemnation. Instead, it’s about exposing the reality of sin so that the grace of the gospel becomes not just intellectually true, but utterly necessary. This use of the Law doesn’t bind—it awakens.

Paul makes this unmistakably clear in Romans 3:20 when he writes, “Through the law comes knowledge of sin.” For context, that verse comes after an extended indictment against all humanity—Jew and Gentile alike—and the Law stands as the inescapable witness to our guilt. The Law doesn’t heal us, but it does give us a thorough diagnosis. It doesn’t save, but it certainly convicts the mess out of us. And that’s precisely the point. Without the Law, we would never see how far we’ve fallen. Without a standard, no one recognizes their own crookedness.

Do you want to know why all those sacrifices and temple washings were needed? They were there to show us just how dirty we are—and how holy God is. See, too many people think they’re just a little messed up. But God says, no—you’re a mess. And you need Me to make you clean. The Law doesn’t let us settle for shallow self-assessments. It drags us to the core of who we are, and until we see ourselves through that lens, we will never understand our need for a Savior.

Paul expands on this in Romans 7, reflecting on how he came to realize the depth of his own sin. “I would not have known what it is to covet,” he says, “if the law had not said, ‘You shall not covet.’” And that’s powerful. Because out of all sins, coveting is one of the most internal, invisible, and unpunishable—and yet the Law convicted him there. It reached beyond motions to his motives. It exposed what religion can’t fix and what self-discipline can’t reach. That’s the power of the Law in this use: it leaves us with nowhere to hide.

In Galatians 3, Paul takes it even further. He says the Law “was our guardian until Christ came.” The Greek word there is paidagōgos—a kind of strict tutor or household disciplinarian. And to be clear, a paidagōgos wasn’t warm or gentle. But that was the point. The Law served as a paidagōgos to keep God’s people fenced in—painfully aware of their inability to meet the standard—until (and that’s the word to underline) true righteousness would be revealed. Not as something achieved, but as a gift received by faith in Christ.

This is why the convictional use of the Law remains powerful for Christians today—not to crush us under a covenant we’re no longer under, but to free us from the illusion that we were ever okay without grace. It delivers a death blow to self-righteousness. It destroys moral relativism. It exposes the danger of comparing ourselves to others instead of to God. And for the nonbeliever, it serves as a necessary precondition for understanding the cross—not just as a loving gesture, but as a substitution for what we rightly deserved.

And even for believers, this use doesn’t go away. Yes, we are no longer under the Law, but the Law still reveals sin. It still searches the heart. That doesn’t stop just because we’re saved. The key difference is this: it now functions not as a legal judge, but as a diagnostic tool wielded by the Spirit. When the Law convicts us, it does so not to drive us back under condemnation—but to drive us back to Christ. And that distinction is everything.

So when we talk about the convictional use of the Law, we’re not talking about academic theology. We’re talking about the tool God uses to strip away our delusions, to silence our boasting, and to bring us to the end of ourselves. Because it’s only in that place—where we’ve been fully exposed and left spiritually bankrupt—that we reach out in desperate need for grace. And it’s there that the gospel meets us with the healing power we could never earn.

The Instructional Use – The Law as a Window into God’s Moral Priorities

By now we’ve seen that the Law of Moses is no longer binding for believers. But that doesn’t mean it has nothing to say about how we live. In fact, it still speaks with clarity—not as covenantal obligation, but as moral revelation. This is what we call the instructional use of the Law.

This use focuses on how the Mosaic Law reveals God’s enduring moral standards—the kind of righteousness, justice, purity, and love that reflects His character and will. Even though the Law has been fulfilled in Christ and we are no longer under its legal authority, many of its commands still teach us what God considers right and wrong.

And this is critical: we’re not talking about re-binding ourselves to the Law of Moses. We’re talking about letting it shape our conscience. When we read the Law, we see what God praises, what He condemns, what He protects, and what He punishes—and those patterns are not arbitrary. They flow from who He is.

This instructional use answers the question, “What does God love, and what does He hate?” It gives moral clarity. It doesn’t just help us make good decisions—it forms our inner compass, trains our affections, and builds the foundation for Christlike character. It shapes how we view the world, how we treat people, and how we pursue holiness.

For example, commands like “You shall not steal,” “You shall not bear false witness,” or “Do not oppress the widow or the foreigner” aren’t mere social rules for ancient Israel—they reflect God’s unchanging moral priorities. They show us that justice, truthfulness, and compassion are not just cultural values—they are divine standards.

This is why Paul can say in Romans 7:12, “The law is holy, and the commandment is holy and righteous and good.” Not because it justifies us. But because it helps us understand what goodness actually is.

This also explains why Jesus and the apostles frequently appealed to the Law when teaching Christian ethics. They weren’t reimposing the Mosaic code—they were showing how the Law reveals the heart of God and how that heart is fulfilled and embodied in the life of Christ.

And this is where we need to be clear about what distinguishes the instructional use from the wisdom use, which we’ll explore next. The instructional use draws out moral absolutes—truths about what is good or evil in the sight of God. The wisdom use, by contrast, draws practical insight from expired laws. One forms the conscience; the other shapes judgment. They work together—but they are not the same.

So when we speak of the instructional use of the Law, we’re not looking for rules to obey—we’re looking for the righteousness that God delights in. And by reflecting on those moral priorities, we grow—not under the Law, but into the image of Christ.

The Covenantal Use – The Law as a Historical Marker in Redemptive History

At this point, someone might ask, Why does it matter that we understand the Mosaic Law at all, if we’re no longer under it? Why not just skip ahead to Jesus and leave the Old Covenant behind?

Because to skip the Law is to sever the storyline. And if you cut the Bible off from its covenantal backbone, you don’t just lose context—you lose meaning.

This brings us to the covenantal use of the Law: its role in preserving the redemptive story. The Mosaic Law is not just a list of commands—it is an essential act in the unfolding drama of God’s salvation. It marks a specific chapter in the covenantal progression that leads us straight to Christ. If you don’t understand the Law in its covenantal role, you will inevitably misunderstand the gospel that fulfills it.

So what question does this use of the Law answer? It answers the question: “How does the Mosaic Law fit into God’s unfolding covenantal plan—and what does that teach us about the gospel?” This use helps us see the Law not as isolated legislation, but as part of a larger redemptive structure. It invites us to trace how God’s promises move from Abraham to Moses to Christ—and how the Mosaic covenant was never the destination, but a necessary stage on the way.

Let me explain.

God’s redemptive plan has always unfolded through covenants—not random miracles or disjointed events, but a coherent narrative anchored in God’s covenantal faithfulness. The Law of Moses was given at Mount Sinai as part of the covenant God made with Israel after redeeming them from slavery in Egypt. This was not a generic religious code; it was a covenantal constitution, designed to govern a redeemed people in a particular land under a particular promise.

In other words, the Law wasn’t dropped out of the sky—it was embedded in the larger story of God’s relationship with His people. And that story was always temporary. As Paul puts it in Galatians 3:19, “Why then the law? It was added because of transgressions, until the offspring should come to whom the promise had been made.” That little word—until—is doing massive theological work. The Law was a covenant with an expiration date. It had a divinely appointed shelf life. And when Christ came, that covenant reached its fulfillment.

This is why Hebrews 8:13 says that in calling the covenant “new,” God made the first one obsolete. Not irrelevant. Not evil. Just completed. Like scaffolding taken down once the building is finished. The Law was glorious in its time (2 Cor. 3:7), but its purpose was always to point forward to something greater—a better covenant, one built on better promises and secured by a better Mediator.

So what’s the takeaway?

The takeaway is that we must read the Law in light of its covenantal role. Not as a timeless moral code. Not as a legal system we can cherry-pick from. But as a historically situated, theologically rich covenant that served a very specific purpose in God’s redemptive plan. When we do that, the Law becomes less confusing and far more meaningful.

It explains why Israel functioned the way it did. Why the priesthood existed. Why sacrifices were required. Why purity laws mattered. These weren’t arbitrary—they were covenantal markers, boundary lines that set Israel apart as God’s holy nation under a temporary covenant. And understanding that helps us read the Bible as one unified story, not two disconnected religions.

So the covenantal use of the Law teaches us how to read the Scriptures canonically. It keeps us from flattening the Bible into a list of moral lessons. It reminds us that we’re not the center of the story—Christ is. And every covenant, including the Mosaic one, was moving the plot forward toward Him.

In this sense, the Law is like the act of a play that sets up the climax. You can’t fully appreciate the cross until you understand what came before it. You can’t grasp the beauty of the new covenant unless you see the burdens of the old. And you can’t preach grace with power unless you see the Law that made grace necessary.

So we don’t just look at the Law for commands—we look at it for context. It preserves the shape of the story. It reveals the faithfulness of God. And it reminds us that salvation was never an afterthought. It was always the plan. From Sinai to Calvary, every step of the way.

The Wisdom Use – The Law as Practical Guidance for Life in God’s World

At first glance, the wisdom use of the Law might seem almost identical to the instructional use—and honestly, that’s a fair assumption. Both involve reading Old Testament laws that are no longer binding. Both honor the text as inspired. Both attempt to draw relevance from commands originally given to Israel. But here’s the difference: the instructional use gives us moral clarity—revealing God’s enduring standards of right and wrong. The wisdom use gives us practical discernment—helping us trace patterns of divine logic, care, and order from within laws that were always meant to be temporary.

So what question does this use of the Law answer? It answers the question: “What timeless wisdom can I learn from temporary commands that are no longer binding?” Unlike the instructional use, which trains our conscience in what is good or evil before God, the wisdom use trains our mind to think God’s thoughts after Him. It helps us develop theological instincts, sharpen our moral imagination, and see God’s priorities woven through the structures of the old covenant, even after the structures themselves have passed away.

This means that with the wisdom use, we’re not asking, “What moral obligations still bind us?” Instead, we’re asking, “What does this law reveal about the way God thinks? What can I learn from how He structured life under the Mosaic covenant, even though that covenant has been fulfilled?” This distinction is crucial. The instructional use forms your conscience—it tells you what is right or wrong in the sight of God. But the wisdom use forms your judgment—it shapes how you think, how you reason through moral gray areas, and how you discern God’s heart behind His laws.

For example, when the Law told Israel not to muzzle an ox while it treads out the grain (Deut. 25:4), that wasn’t merely about animal rights. Paul picks up on that in 1 Corinthians 9 and 1 Timothy 5—not to reapply the law as a command, but to extract the principle behind it: workers deserve to benefit from their labor. That’s not legal re-enactment. That’s wisdom. In the same way, laws about leaving the edges of the field for the poor, or having fair weights and measures in business, or offering mercy to someone who committed manslaughter—none of these are laws Christians are bound to obey in their old form. But every one of them reflects something lasting about God’s justice, generosity, and care for order and human dignity.

And this brings us to an important clarification—because this is where general equity theonomists often step in and attempt something similar, but take it one step too far. Like us, they seek to draw moral principles from expired civil laws. But unlike the wisdom use, they treat those principles as binding legislation—turning expired covenantal policies into timeless norms for society. That’s not biblical maturity. That’s a category error. Theonomy collapses wisdom into legislation. But wisdom doesn’t bind the conscience—it informs it. It doesn’t command—it guides. The general equity model tries to preserve the Law’s voice but ends up reimposing its yoke. It confuses fulfilled law with transferable law, and in doing so, it obscures the reality that Christ didn’t just reinterpret the Law—He brought it to its intended end.

You see, the Mosaic Law is no longer our governing code. But that doesn’t mean it’s useless. The wisdom use treats those expired commands like seeds—each one containing insight into how God thinks, how He values justice, mercy, holiness, and community life. And though the laws themselves have faded, the wisdom still bears fruit. That’s how we honor the Law as fulfilled and still profitable. It’s how we read the Law like mature sons and daughters in Christ—not as servants under a legal code, but as Spirit-led people who are being trained by Scripture to think and live wisely.

So no, we don’t rebuild Torah. We don’t recreate a Christianized civil government. But we do slow down, study the text, and ask what divine wisdom is embedded in these temporary commands. That’s not legalism—it’s discipleship. That’s not theonomy—it’s biblical maturity. And for the believer who wants to grow in discernment, justice, compassion, and practical faithfulness, the wisdom use of the Law is a priceless gift we dare not ignore.

The Polemic Use – The Law as a Witness to the Gospel and Christ’s Supremacy

At this point in the journey, we’ve seen how the Law of Moses functions to convict the sinner, instruct the conscience, preserve the covenant storyline, and impart divine wisdom. But the Law does something else—something both defensive and offensive. It exposes the lie. It confronts the counterfeit. It declares war on false religion.

This is what we call the polemical use of the Law.

So what question does this use answer? It answers the question: “How does the Law of Moses equip us to expose false religion and defend the truth of God?” The polemical use is where the Law doesn’t just form us—it confronts the world around us. It defines holiness not only by what is righteous, but by what it is not. It draws theological boundary lines that unmask the lies of rival worldviews and reveal the uniqueness of the God of Israel.

To put it simply: the Law of Moses was never just about Israel’s internal holiness. It was also a public declaration that Yahweh alone is God—and that all rival systems of worship, morality, and power are false. The Law functioned not only as a covenantal guide for Israel but as a divine protest against the gods of the nations.

We see this on full display in the Exodus story. The ten plagues weren’t random acts of judgment. They were targeted strikes against the gods of Egypt (Exodus 12:12). The Law that followed—rooted in Yahweh’s character and codified at Sinai—was given in stark contrast to the chaotic, idolatrous, power-hungry systems of the surrounding world. Every detail—from Israel’s purity laws to their sacrificial calendar—was designed to say, “We are not like them, because our God is not like theirs.”

And that polemical function still matters today.

When we read the Law rightly, we begin to see that it doesn’t just teach holiness—it defines it against its counterfeits. It unmasks idolatry. It exposes paganism. It undermines religious relativism. And it reminds us that the God of Israel is not one deity among many—He is the only God, and He alone sets the standard for what is true, good, and beautiful.

For example, the Law’s sexual ethics—often ridiculed or rejected today—stood in radical opposition to the sexualized rituals of Canaanite worship. Its economic laws challenged exploitative systems of slavery, greed, and generational oppression. Its theology of sacrifice challenged the appeasement-based religion of paganism and revealed a God who demanded holiness but provided atonement through His own appointed means.

The point is this: the Law doesn’t just teach us. It confronts the world. It stands as an ancient and enduring witness against all counterfeit gospels—whether that gospel is legalism, relativism, pluralism, nationalism, mysticism, or materialism. And when used rightly, it arms the Church with theological clarity to resist the lies of the age.

This is why the Law is so useful in apologetics and evangelism—not because we’re trying to rebind people to the Mosaic covenant, but because we’re trying to expose the spiritual bankruptcy of everything outside the covenant of grace. When we quote the Law in conversations with non-Christians, we’re not saying, “You need to keep this to be saved.” We’re saying, “This is God’s definition of righteousness—and this is what Christ came to fulfill for you, because you could never fulfill it yourself.”

This is also what Paul does in Romans 2, when he indicts the Jew who boasts in the Law but fails to keep it. And again in Galatians 3, when he shows how the Law imprisoned everything under sin to make clear that righteousness could never come by works. These polemical uses aren’t just ancient arguments—they’re Spirit-inspired strategies for confronting the pride, delusion, and false worship that still dominate the human heart.

So when we use the Law polemically, we’re not being legalists—we’re being truth-tellers. We’re showing the futility of every false system and highlighting the exclusive glory of Christ. We’re doing what the Law itself was designed to do: dismantle the idols and point to the only Savior who can redeem us from them.

In this way, the Law of Moses still functions as a theological wrecking ball—shattering man-made religion, exposing sin’s deception, and clearing the ground for the gospel to be proclaimed with power.

The Doctrinal Use – The Law as a Theological Framework for Understanding God

If the Law of Moses convicts the heart, teaches the conscience, preserves the covenantal storyline, imparts wisdom, and exposes falsehood, then what more could it possibly do?

Answer: it reveals God Himself.

The doctrinal use of the Law answers one of the most important theological questions of all: “What does the Law reveal about the character of God?” In other words, when we read the Law, we’re not just reading moral instructions or covenant regulations—we’re beholding the heart, holiness, and perfection of the Lawgiver. The focus is not on what we must do, but on who God is. The Law functions not merely as a set of commands, but as a theological portrait. Every statute, every ritual, every ordinance is like a brushstroke revealing the holiness, justice, mercy, patience, and purity of Yahweh.

This is crucial to understand: the Law doesn’t just teach us about righteousness—it reflects the very righteousness of the One who gave it. His values. His priorities. His absolute moral perfection. The Law is not merely the terms of an old covenant—it is a window into the divine character.

This is why Psalm 119—the longest chapter in the Bible—is a song of praise for the Law. Not because the psalmist thought Torah observance could save him, but because the Law revealed the majesty of the God he loved. “Open my eyes,” he says, “that I may behold wondrous things out of your law” (Psalm 119:18). That’s not legalism. That’s adoration.

The doctrinal use of the Law is what makes biblical theology so rich. When you study the Mosaic Law not as a cold legal code, but as a Christ-centered revelation, you begin to see how the gospel shines through every page:

The sacrificial system? It reveals a God who takes sin seriously—and who provides a substitute.

The purity laws? They show a God who is holy and who desires His people to reflect that holiness.

The priesthood? It reveals a God who desires intercession and mediation on behalf of sinners.

The festivals and sabbaths? They reveal a God who builds rest, joy, and remembrance into the rhythms of life.

The civil laws? They show a God who cares about justice, mercy, and societal order.

But above all, the Law teaches us this: God is not like us—and that’s very good news. He is perfect, and we are not. He is holy, and we are unclean. He is righteous, and we fall short. And when that truth settles into your bones, the gospel doesn’t just sound helpful—it sounds glorious.

Because it’s only when we see the full weight of God’s moral perfection that we can grasp the full wonder of His grace. The Law shows us the height of the standard, so that the cross of Christ can be seen for what it is: the only sufficient answer to our deepest need.

This is why Paul can say in Romans 7:12, “The law is holy, and the commandment is holy and righteous and good.” Not because it saves—but because it reveals the One who does.

So when we talk about the doctrinal use of the Law, we’re not trying to put people back under the burden of Sinai. We’re inviting them to behold the God who thundered at Sinai and then humbled Himself at Calvary. We’re showing them how the same God who gave the Law is the One who fulfilled it in His Son.

And that brings the seven uses full circle.

The Law convicts—but not to destroy. It instructs—but not to bind. It preserves the covenant story—but not to keep us stuck in it. It offers wisdom—but not without Christ. It confronts falsehood—but always to drive us toward truth. And it reveals God—but never apart from His grace.

When we understand all seven uses together, the Law of Moses stops being a source of confusion or fear. It becomes a theological treasure chest—not because it’s binding, but because it’s beautiful.

So no, we don’t keep the Law to be saved. But we don’t throw it away either. We read it to see the glory of Christ more clearly. We study it to know the heart of God more deeply. We cherish it—not as our covenant, but as part of our inheritance.

Because the goal of the Law was never lawfulness for its own sake.

The goal was always Jesus.

Why This Framework Matters

Now, look, if you’ve made it this far, you’ve probably realized that the Law of Moses isn’t something Christians should be afraid of. But it’s also not something we can treat lightly or use carelessly. Too often, the church has defaulted to frameworks that sound pious but lack covenantal precision. We’ve been told that the law is either for us or against us, either fully binding or totally irrelevant, either abolished or eternally unchanged. And these half-answers have left many believers confused, unstable, and vulnerable to false teaching.

That’s why this sevenfold framework matters.

It doesn’t try to force the Law of Moses into categories Scripture never affirms—like the moral, civil, and ceremonial division. It doesn’t pretend that we’re still under a covenant that the New Testament clearly declares obsolete (Heb. 8:13). And it doesn’t fall into the opposite ditch of discarding the Law as if it were some embarrassing relic from a bygone era. Instead, it offers something better: a covenantally faithful, Christ-centered, biblically grounded model that helps us see the law in its time, for its purpose, and through its fulfillment in Jesus.

These seven uses—typological, convictional, instructional, covenantal, wisdom, polemic, and doctrinal—don’t flatten redemptive history. They honor it. They help us ask better questions. Not “Which laws still apply?” but “What was God doing here?” “What did this teach Israel then?” “What does this reveal about Christ now?” And in doing so, they not only clarify the purpose of the Law—they magnify the beauty of the gospel.

So no, we don’t need to go back to Moses. We don’t need to reconstruct the Old Covenant in our churches or nations or personal morality. What we need is to understand Moses in light of Christ. To see the Law for what it is: not our covenant, but our teacher. Not our master, but our servant. Not our righteousness, but our witness—pointing us to the One who is our righteousness.

The threefold use of the law served a purpose in its time, especially as a tool of Reformation theology. But now we stand in a different time, facing different challenges, and we need a framework that is more faithful to Scripture’s covenantal logic and more powerful for discipleship today. We need to move past the categories of tradition and into the categories of fulfillment.

And when we do, we’ll stop living in the shadow of Sinai and start walking in the light of the risen Christ—who fulfilled the Law, freed us from its curse, and now calls us to live not by the letter, but by the Spirit.

The Law of Moses may be old, but it’s not irrelevant. And by God’s grace, when read rightly, it will not bind you—but bless you.

Resources to Consider

1. “Kingdom through Covenant” by Peter J. Gentry and Stephen J. Wellum

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

3. "From Sabbath to Lord’s Day (Essay: “The End of the Law”)" edited by D.A. Carson