acred Let me begin by saying, I’m the best person to preach on this one. Just ask my ex-wife. Or the others who came before her. Fidelity wasn’t my thing.
 
Then my first marriage ended. And I made the conscious decision to no longer be “that guy.” I think I struggled writing this message because of that. So, I buried myself in research hoping Holly would surprise me. And once again, she didn’t let me down or let me off the hook.
 
For example, I learned the Hebrew word na’af doesn’t just mean “sex outside of marriage.” In fact, it literally means betray a covenant. That could mean a marriage vow, or a communal promise, or the divine covenant between us and God.
 
In the ancient world, adultery was more than a private moral failure. It was breaking the trust that held families and communities together.

​When Israel chased other gods, the prophet Isaiah didn’t call it “exploring options.”  He called it na’af —adultery. A spiritual infidelity.
 
The rabbis took this to mean that anytime you betray a person, you’re betraying the God whose image they bear. Again, it’s not just about keeping wedding vows.  It’s about being faithful to God, to each other, to love itself.
 
So maybe the question Patricia should ask Tom isn’t “Who’s Joanna.” But “Are you faithful?” Are you faithful to your word, your neighbor, your God, your truest self?”
 
But then Jesus goes on to say, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’  But I say to you, that everyone who looks with lust has already committed adultery in the heart.”
 
Jesus is showing us how our idea of love gets distorted the moment we turn a person into an object for our use or fantasy. He knows we can’t build God’s kingdom while objectifying its citizens.

Jesus invites us to see others the way God sees us—whole, radiant, made in the divine image.
 
But when we stop seeing people as sacred and holy when we only see them for what they can offer (like status, comfort, validation, a vote) we break this commandment by betraying the divine image that binds us together. And we commit a quiet kind of adultery against the fidelity of love itself.
 
As I mentioned last week, one year I gave up murder for Lent. Well, the following year I took a stab at fasting from this one. I thought it should be a no brainer. I was madly in love with Kathleen and determined not to repeat the patterns that had wrecked relationships before her.
 
But then, I turned up the heat and approached this commandment the way Jesus did —beyond the obvious. I fasted from objectification and feasted on seeing every person, especially women, as beloved children of God.
 
There’s a Hasidic saying, “In every human encounter, there is a spark of the Divine waiting to be discovered.” So, I put imaginary halos over people’s heads to keep me grounded. It sounds simple but requires getting it over some people’s horns.
 
Another part of my spiritual practice was looking people in the eye when they spoke. This simple task also proved to be challenging. It required me to be intentionally present, to listen not for what I could get, but for what I could give. But as the days worn on, I slowly began to notice a change. I began truly see others for who they were, understanding their worth and value, as well as my own.
 
These were just a few of the exercises that helped me realized this commandment isn’t just about moral policing—it’s about presence, showing up with intention reflecting God’s love, grace, and forgiveness in real time, with real people, in real situations.
 
True fidelity is love incarnate embodied and made real in how we live out our faith together. This is the kind of fidelity Jesus shows. It’s the kind that builds a community of love in the space between where small, steady acts of faithfulness can heal the world and expand the kingdom of God.
 
Funny how the Church keeps losing its balance right where love was meant to keep us standing. Maybe it’s because it’s easier to preach fidelity than to practice it. Easier to talk about love than to let it cost us something.
 
If we’re honest, we’ve weaponized this commandment—turning fidelity into fear, and purity into punishment. We shame those who are divorced. We shun our LGBTQ+ siblings. We marginalize anyone whose story doesn’t fit our tiny understanding.

But the commandments were never meant to shame us; they were given to protect the sacred space where love can take root and grow.
 
So how do we live them faithfully? How do we stop the quiet adultery of the heart and imagination? Let me offer three simple practices I learned in my Lenten journey.
 
First, feast on presence.
 
When you’re with someone, be with them—not half-scrolling, half-listening, rehearsing  what you’ll say next. Just be there, heart and all, like Jesus does. He notices the woman at the well, the tax collector in the tree, the bleeding woman in the crowd. Jesus sees their halos and stops to offer each one the transformative, divine power of a compassionate heart.
 
Second, feast on commitment.
 
Don’t just show up, reach out. Renew a relationship you’ve neglected, a task you’ve grown tired of, a prayer you’ve stopped praying. Faithfulness in the small things builds faithfulness in the big ones.
 
Third, feast on God’s fidelity.
 
Re-center your heart on the One who has never broken the covenant, who has always been faithful to us no matter how unfaithful we’ve been. A God who stays—who loves, who forgives, … and who keeps showing up with grace upon grace. Jesus calls us to do the same for each other. To be the incarnate presence of God’s fidelity in the world.
 
Victor Hugo wrote, “To love another person is to see the face of God.”  When we live that way, love stops being something we feel and becomes something we do.
 
This is the way of Jesus who stays when others scatter. Who forgives when others condemn. Who loves so deeply it carries him through death and beyond. Every time we live like that—with open hands and a Christlike heart, we show the world what God’s love looks like.
 
So, this week, let’s give up adultery, the quick judgments that reduce someone to a category. Let’s give up the restless eye that keeps chasing what’s next instead of tending what’s here. And let’s give up the spiritual flirting with comfort or control that keeps us from trusting God’s love.
 
In its place, let’s choose fidelity to the promise God offers us through Christ. Let us stay faithful to love itself—the love that saves, redeems, and holds us together.
 
May we never lose sight of the halo over our own heads, as we learn to see the sacred image of God in every face before us. And as we do, may our faithfulness bear witness to the one truth written into every commandment, every word, every act: God is love. And thanks be to God…so are we.

That’s it. Four simple words. One powerful command. In Hebrew it's even shorter: Lo tirtzach (לֹא תִרְצָח) — “No killing.”  
​
Most of us can check that box. We’re decent people, not murderers. We recycle. We donate. We brake for squirrels. But what if I told you this commandment isn’t just about taking a life—it also asks: how do we honor life itself?
 
Now, according to the Torah not all killing was considered murder. There were times when it was allowed. For example, defending yourself, fighting in a just war, or when a court handed down a fair sentence.

But ratzach (רָצַח), the word used here, means something deeper. It’s the kind of killing that grows out of hate, revenge, or forgetting that the person behind you honking also carries the image of God. 

​When Moses receives this command, it’s not just God saying “don’t kill.” It was God saying, “don’t destroy anything that bears my image.”
 
The ancient teachers believed murder doesn’t just take a life—it tears at the fabric of creation itself. When Cain killed Abel, scripture says the ground itself cried out in protest.

The Talmud puts it this way: “Whoever destroys a single life, it’s as if they’ve destroyed an entire world.” It describes every person as a world: one full of stories, relationships, and the very breath of God.
 
As this teaching passed throughout the generations, this notion grew deeper. Soon rabbis were teaching murder starts long before the act itself. It’s born not with a weapon. But with words. With anger. With shame and humiliation.
 
Jesus picks up on this in his Sermon on the Mount. He teaches us, “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not murder,’ but I say to you that if you are angry with a brother or sister, you will be liable to judgment.” (Matthew 5:21–22)
 
Jesus believed the road to killing begins in the heart where we dehumanize others with our fears and prejudices; where our contempt replaces our compassion; where “those people” are not seen as image bearers of God’s glory, but rather a target of our hatred and bigotry.
 
Today, I imagine Jesus might have a sticker on his car that reads, “Guns don’t kill people, you do. So, stop it.”
 
Now, you might recall me telling a story of the time I gave up murder for Lent. It sounded simple at first. But then I began to expand the meaning the way Jesus did.

It didn’t take long for me to notice all the subtle ways I killed others through the quiet assassinations we all carry out every day. Shooting down someone’s idea before they finish speaking. Assuming the worst about someone on the news. Humiliating someone to make a point, or to make my joke funnier.
 
But here’s the problem I discovered. Once I expanded the definition to include killing someone’s joy, dream, or dignity—I knew I was doomed.
 
We live in a culture that rewards us for destroying someone’s reputation on social media. And where character assassinations in politics are applauded like sport. I can’t even imagine how many people the church has wounded by weaponizing faith. Or refusing to denounce the injustices that harm those made in God’s image.
 
Even when we don’t commit the act, our indifference, prejudice, or fear can keep violence alive. Theologian Miroslav Volf reminds us that every time we withhold love from someone we deem unworthy, a seed of violence is planted. That seed might never bloom into murder, but it still poisons the soil.
 
Again, the sixth commandment is more than “not taking life.” It’s about creating the kind of world where all life can flourish, where everyone’s love has room to grow. Which means, every time we offer mercy instead of judgment, every time we lift someone up instead of cutting them down, we are keeping this commandment.
This was Jesus’ Way of Life.
 
When an angry crowd was about to kill a woman caught in adultery, Jesus stepped between her and the accusers, and said, “Let anyone without sin cast the first stone” (c.f. John 8:1–11). With just a few quiet words, He turned their violence into mercy, their judgment into grace. More than just saving this woman’s life, Jesus also restored her dignity.
 
If we are going to follow Jesus, we must become life-givers in a death-dealing world.
 
Think about it like this: When you forgive someone instead of seeking revenge—you choose life. When you refuse to demonize the other side, especially for your benefit—you choose life. When you welcome the stranger or see God’s image in every person—you’re keeping this commandment. But when you don’t, you’re breaking it.
 
Again Jesus pushes this notion further. He says, “If you are offering your gift at the altar and remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift … go and seek reconciliation, then come and make your offering” (Matthew 5:23–24).

In other words, before you make things right with God, make things right with each other. And that rightness begins in the heart.
 
I can preach about love all day, but if I’m holding resentment—if I’m quietly “murdering” someone in my heart—what good is my word or my worship?
 
In the second century, Justin Martyr wrote that Christians are to “no longer take part in the shedding of blood, but in the healing of wounds.” 

We’ve come to a crossroad. The church has lost its way on the battlefield of life. Too many Christians are taking aim at others, instead of caring for those we’ve wounded. Have we forgotten Jesus called us to carry a cross, not a gun?

The cross must be our weapon of choice. Jesus absorbed the world’s violence on the cross. And instead of returning it, he transformed it into forgiveness. In his resurrection, God made it clear: the final word over humanity is not death—but life.
 
Like Dr. King stated,  “There is no greater power in the universe than love. It is the heartbeat of God.”
 
So maybe the question this commandment asks isn’t “Have you murdered?” but “Are you participating in life or in death?” When we withhold grace, we strangle possibility. When we harbor resentment, we choke our own Spirit. When we gossip, we steal someone’s breath.

But when we love—truly love with a Christlike heart—we breathe life into the world again.
 
We have the power of Christ within us. But are we using that power to give life or take it away? We know what Jesus did. But will we follow him? Really follow?
 
Imagine how you could be empowered and transformed, if you filtered all your conversations, disagreements, and online posts through this commandment. This is how we build a community of love in the space between—one kind word spoken, one act of love offered as worship and praise.
 
So this week, I invite you to take up that Lenten challenge—give up murder. Not the obvious kind, but the subtle kind: the sharp comment, the cold shoulder, the cynicism that kills wonder.

And in its place, love instead of harm; bless instead of curse; encourage instead of criticize; forgive instead of fume.
 
Because in a world obsessed with outrage and honking horns, the simplest act of love we offer can turn a battlefield into holy ground.
  


Work Cited
Babylonian Talmud, Sanhedrin 37a. The rabbis teach that “whoever destroys a single life… it is as if he destroyed an entire world.”
Martin Luther King, Jr., A Gift of Love: Sermons from Strength to Love and Other Preachings (Boston: Beacon Press, 2012), 50.
Justin Martyr. First Apology. In The Ante-Nicene Fathers, edited by Alexander Roberts and James Donaldson, Vol. 1. (Buffalo, NY: Christian Literature Publishing Co., 1885).
Miroslav Volf. Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation. (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996).

This commandment, the longest of the ten, sneaks in like a quiet, unassuming gift. And what a gift it is. I mean, who doesn’t love a day off?

But for our Jewish siblings, Sabbath isn’t just a break from work. As we learned during our study of the 8 sacred moves in Genesis, Sabbath is the crown jewel of all creation. The world wasn’t complete until God stopped and rested. Yet, we keep pushing ourselves to stay busy.

Every L.A. neighborhood I’ve lived in has had a strong Jewish presence. And I’ve learned a few things. For example, every Friday at sundown, a certain sacred quiet happens. That’s when their Sabbath begins.

My neighbors rush home to get the table set and candles lit, because at sunset their phones get turned off. And all work ceases. Then, around the table, family and friends gather to bless the bread and wine. And to simply be in their tradition and delight.

​As a rabbi friend told me, “Sabbath is the day everything in creation celebrates and rejoices in its very existence.”

Of course, you may have noticed, Sabbath wasn’t just for Israel. According to Exodus, it’s for you, your kids, your workers, your pets and livestock, even the people passing through your town are given the day to rest. One day, out of each week, all of creation shares in God’s delight.

That’s the invitation of Sabbath, not just to rest, but to get a foretaste of the Kingdom of God here on Earth. The prophet Isaiah wrote, “If you call the Sabbath a delight… then you shall take delight in the Lord” (Isaiah 58:13–14). Which raises the question: Are we allowing ourselves to take delight in this day?

I think when we’re so quick to hurry through life to get to the next thing that needs doing, we risk hurrying past God as well. And that can’t be good.

There’s an episode of Parks and Recreation where Tom and Donna take a whole day just to “treat yo’ self.” They splurge on spa days, fancy clothes, and ridiculous luxuries. It’s a hilarious reminder that Sabbath is a day to collapse not in exhaustion but intentional joy; to receive and delight in all that God has to offer us.

So why aren’t we taking advantage of this? Imagine the power it could have on the way the world works, if we all just took the time off to delight in each other’s existence.

I've said it before, but it bears repeating because I don't think we are hearing it. Humans are the only creatures that wake up with a to-do list.  Maybe that’s why rest is included in the Big Ten. 

In Jesus’ day, Sabbath was extremely sacred but it was so tightly guarded that it became a legalistic cage. Mark tells us that the disciples plucked grain one Sabbath because they were hungry.

The religious leaders pounced: “Look, why are they doing what is not lawful on the Sabbath?” (Mark 2:24). Jesus famously answers them, “The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath...” (Mark 2:27)

This commandment isn’t about restriction, it’s about restoration. It’s about wholeness, completion. That’s what Jesus does. He makes us whole and complete again.

He demonstrates this in many of his healings. A man with a withered hand, a woman bent over in pain for eighteen years, a paralytic by the pool. Each person was healed on Shabbat, not to break but to fulfill the purpose of this commandment!

Rob Bell writes,“The Sabbath is about trust. Do we trust that the world is in God’s hands if we stop working for one day?”

He reminds us that we aren’t machines made in a factory. We are the beloved creation made in the very image of our creator.

Like Richard Rohr points out, “We are human beings, not human doings. Until we take time simply to be, we will forget who we are in God.”

Sabbath gives us the space to hear God whisper, “You’re my beloved. Let’s celebrate.”

To quote the poet Wendell Berry, “Sabbath observance invites us to stop. To stop the manic busyness that clutters life, to stop the compulsive work that frustrates life, to stop the carelessness that corrupts life.”

So why do we keep pushing ourselves to death?

Maybe you were told the harder you work, the better you are. That lie’s been around since Egypt, when Pharaoh literally worked the Israelites to death. Then God stepped in.

Maya Angelou wrote, “Every person needs to take one day away. A day in which one consciously separates the past from the future.” I think that’s some pretty good advice, don’t you?

I love this story about my friend Sally from Greenville, Michigan. Sally, who cleaned houses for a living, loved to tease me that I only worked one day a week, and really only the morning hours. She then would then go on to boast how she worked six days a week, and sometimes late into the night.

One day I asked how she spent her day off, she smiled and said, “I go to church. And nap.”

I can’t say for sure if she meant at the same time. But it was a solid understanding of Sabbath if you ask me.

Most of us, we give God an hour on Sunday before diving back into the grind of life. But like Sally knew, a nap is more holy, and more faithful to the commandment than another hour of work.

Even though a minister is always on call, I try to be intentional about taking Mondays off. Yet, if I’m not mindful, I fall into the trap of doing “just one more thing.”

​But on those days when I stop and take time to be—I remember who I am. Not a pastor, not a producer. Just a beloved child of God, who says, “Stop. Rest. Celebrate life with me.”

You might think it’s impossible to practice such rest in a world that never stops. So, I invite you to start small. Turn off your phone. Sit on the porch. Read a book. Let your life smile again.

​Sabbath isn’t just closing the laptop; it’s opening our lives to joy. So, take a holy nap. Share a meal. Walk slowly. Laugh hard. Because, when God’s rest becomes ours, … then our rest can become a blessing to the world.

Which might be why this commandment sneaks in at the middle of the Big Ten; like a bridge between our relationships with God and with one another. It helps us remember who we belong to, and what our purpose for living is: to enjoy this life we’ve been given with each other.

Imagine knowing you had a small window of time left in life, how would you spend it? Commuting to the office? In a fight with a friend? Tweaking a sermon when you could be playing guitar or doing a puzzle.

Like the movie poster for Ferris Bueller's Day Off states (see above), this is not about being lazy. It's about leisure, reminding yourself there is more to life than busyness, and hustle.

Sabbath is a gift from God, a holy pause that lets delight rise to the top, it allows wounds to heal, and love to take root.

It’s not an interruption to life, but life itself, in the presence of the one who said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).

May this day be that day for you.


Work Cited:
Maya Angelou, Wouldn’t Take Nothing for My Journey Now (New York: Random House, 1993), 27.
Rob Bell, Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith (New York: HarperOne, 2005), 117.
Wendell Berry, This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems (Berkeley, CA: Counterpoint, 2013), 132.
Richard Rohr, Everything Belongs: The Gift of Contemplative Prayer (New York: Crossroad Publishing, 1999), 19.
Parks and Recreation, season 4, episode 4, “Pawnee Rangers,” directed by Charles McDougall, written by Alan Yang, aired October 13, 2011, on NBC.