When Fiona went off to college, it was in the middle of the pandemic. We hoped that we had given her all that she needed to survive. But deep down, we knew in her heart she carried her family and the rhythms of home as she stepped into an unfamiliar wilderness, full of challenges and promise. As we continue our journey through the Big Ten Commandments, we walk with the Israelites, who left the only world they’d ever known. Yes, life in Egypt had been harsh and oppressive. (I’m sure Fiona thought the same about living with us.) But despite the suffering there was some comfort in what they knew. Leaving home, like our children discovered, was full of promise and challenges for God’s children. The difference, of course, is that the Israelites didn’t walk away from their parents. They took them—carrying the wisdom, the memories, and stories of the generations with them. Which brings us to today’s passage in our series on the Big Ten.
At first glance, this sounds like a lesson in good manners. Be polite. Respect your elders. Don’t get sassy when dad asks you to take out the trash. For those who first received these words, this wasn’t about being polite or sentimental. Honoring was pure survival. There weren’t IRAs, pensions, or retirement homes that took care of you. Your kids were your safety net. So you protected them and raised them for this purpose, hoping those lessons stuck. The Talmud teaches, honoring parents isn’t simply a command. It’s doing, it’s action: feed them, clothe them, help them walk, listen patiently as they repeat the same story you’ve heard a thousand times. It was also a common opinion that the way you treated your parents was a direct reflection on how you honored and respected God. Which should be the wake up call for us all. Now, the Hebrew word translated as honor—kābēd—literally means “to give weight.” To honor someone is to say: you matter, your life carries real depth and gravity. And so you respect that person’s weight honoring all the wisdom and history they carry. It’s worth mentioning that kābēd has the same root for the word glory—as in the glory of God, whose weight in the world gives everything its measure. So when we honor our parents, we’re not just being polite. We’re recognizing God’s own glory in them. Later in Israel’s story, the prophets tie this commandment to social justice. Isaiah warn us to care for the most vulnerable in our society: the widows and orphans, the marginalized and rejected. Today, he might warn us: if Grandma’s fridge is empty while your sanctuary is full, you’re nullifying this commandment. A community that neglects its elders has lost its soul. It has no weight, no depth, offers no glory to God. I remember driving with my friend Jeff when we got stuck behind an elderly couple. I joked, “We should just send every old person to a tropical island to live out the rest of their lives, so the rest of us can get on with ours.” Jeff didn’t think it was funny. He just said, “Who would we learn from?” Honoring our elders wasn’t just about caring for them in the last leg of life. It’s also about receiving what they have to offer—making sure their wisdom isn’t tossed aside because it moves a little slower or skips over a few details. More than simply saying “yes ma’am” or “no sir” honoring parents is the glue that holds a community together across generations. A few years back, I met a women during my Knowvember challenge. She was dealing with a difficult breakup. When I asked how she was getting through it, she said, “My grandmother who raised me didn’t have much, but she gave me the one thing I would need most for times like this. She gave me courage.” That’s the weight our elders offer—the steady presence that holds us together in the wilderness of life. It’s in this holding and honoring, God’s glory shines through. Henri Nouwen put it this way: “When we remember with gratitude those who gave us life, we taste God’s faithfulness that stretches across generations.” There’s a passage in Mark 7, where Jesus called out the Pharisees for inventing loopholes to avoid caring for their parents. They called it “Corban”—a way of dedicating resources to the temple instead of using them for their family. Jesus doesn’t mince words. He said: “You have voided the word of God through your traditions that you pass down” (Mark 7:9-13). He will go on to show us what obedience to this commandment really looks like. On the cross, agonizing in pain, Jesus takes the time to make sure his mother will be cared for—entrusting her to his beloved disciple. For Jesus, honoring wasn’t about sending flowers on Mother’s Day. It’s about presence. Being there. Showing up with love no matter the cost (John 19:26-27). I’ll admit, this can be a challenge for those of us with good parents. So, I’m sure it feels down-right impossible for those whose parents merely gave you life but not love. Some parents were absent. Some parents caused harm. Some are too toxic to have a meaningful or healthy relationship with. Does God really ask us to honor that? The short answer is no. Honoring doesn’t mean tolerating abuse. Or pretending it didn’t happen. Sometimes the most faithful way we can show honor (and give glory to God) is to break those vicious cycles—to choose love instead of continuing to harm. And sometimes honor is about opening your heart to receive love from others who step in where our parents could not. Because honoring is bigger than biology. It’s about building a community where love is passed down, whether by blood or by grace. In the center of that community is God, who nurtures and parents us into wholeness. And knits us together to be a family for each other. So, even if our parents couldn’t give us what we needed, we can still honor God together, as a community, by choosing love over hate, joy over bitterness, and making sure no one is without. I have witnessed this kind of love in action, when elders are forgotten. At the retirement community where I serve every week, there are a lot of folks who feel abandoned by their kids. An out of sight out of mind reality. But I’ve witness the power of deep kinship whenever love shows up. For eight years I’ve helped form a small community—a mini-Anamesa—where we practice loving God, loving others, and serving both. This is how their story and our church live on well into the future: by building a community of love in the space between the generations. Inside the fifth commandment is a promise: “Honor your mom and dad so that your days may be long in the land.” More than adding years to our lives. It’s about adding life to our years. Time passes, sometimes quicker than we want. But love lingers, carrying our memories forward. When we use love to honor the ones who gave us our life, the church comes to life. And so do we. With all this said, I’ll admit this particular commandment is hitting a little too close to home. My parents are aging, and their memories are fading. And I’m struggling to pick up the phone and call them more than I do. It’s heartbreaking to watch the two people who taught me to tie my shoes, write my name, and make sense of the world now struggle to remember where they are. Or who I am. Thankfully, honoring isn’t about having a perfect memory. It’s about holding onto the love that shaped me—and paying their love forward—even when memory frays at the edges. And even if your parents couldn’t give that love you needed, you can still honor them by passing on what heals instead of harms. This is how we glorify God, by loving one another no matter what for each one of us bears God’s image. Like Jesus said, “Just as you do to the least of these, who are members of my family, you do also to me” (Matt 25:40). So, when we honor the weight of one another—like the Israelites who carried their parents into the wilderness, like our kids carrying pieces of our home into their future—we take God’s glory with us, into the space between the generations into the next. Amen. Work Cited Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Road to Peace: Meditations on Loving God and Neighbor (New York: Convergent Books, 1994), 67.
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So, I queued up a rowing class on Apple Fitness+. The coach and the team on the screen jumped into rhythm, whether I was ready or not. A few strokes in, my arms were already burning, my lungs reminding me how long I’d been away, and my legs whispering, “let’s quit while we’re ahead.”
But then something shifted. Their rhythm steadied mine. Their energy carried me forward. And stroke by stroke, I found myself moving again, all the way to the end. You know what? Prayer can feel a lot like that too. Miss a few days and suddenly the silence feels heavy, the words don’t come, and the muscle that once felt strong seems to have gone soft. Even when I finally sit down to pray, it can feel like I’m reintroducing myself to God all over again. But here’s the thing—prayer was never about performance. It’s always been about relationship. Like checking in with an old friend, there might be a little catching up to do, but the love is still there, steady as ever. I often remind myself—and anyone who asks—that if you don’t know where to begin, just start with, “Hey God, it’s me.” As Meister Eckhart once said, “If the only prayer you can offer is ‘Thank you,’ that will suffice.” And I think he was right. So if you’ve been away from prayer a day, a week, or longer don’t be discouraged. Just stop to take a moment and say hello. Because God isn’t standing on the dock with a stopwatch tallying absences. God’s already in the boat with you, grinning: “I’m glad you’re here. Grab an oar. Let’s get this started.”
According to Ferris Bueller who famously said, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” In a world that wears exhaustion as a badge of honor, where productivity is worshiped, and rest feels like a sin, I hate to be the one to say it, but God errs on the side of Ferris when it comes to taking a day off "Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your livestock, or the alien resident in your towns. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but rested the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and consecrated it." - Exodus 20:8–11 - 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.
With that said, there’s one word I grew up avoiding at all costs. Not just because I can still taste the bar of Ivory soap in my mouth. Somewhere along the way I was told that even saying “Oh my God” would get me a one-way ticket straight to hell. Even though I no longer believe that…some things still linger. We live in a culture where God’s name gets thrown around like salt on French fries. And the more casually it’s used, the less sacred it seems to become. Which is why today’s commandment, in our Big Ten series, is so important for us to understand better. It reads:
There’s a saying, you know your Irish if your parents begin yelling at you with “Jesus, Joseph and Mary…” And if that offends you, then you’re probably grew up Baptist. Or like I did, you were taught not to mix God’s name with anything…especially “damn.” But given this text, it’s hard for me to imagine God is standing around holding a cosmic swear jar. This commandment is bigger than cussing out the couch when you stub your toe. Something more dangerous. Like St. Augustine wrote, “Do not think you have kept the commandment if you merely avoid blasphemy with your lips. For you take God’s name in vain whenever you call yourself a Christian but do not live as one.” Sixteen-hundred years later that still cuts deep. Here’s what we know. To the ancient Hebrews, God’s name wasn’t just a label—it was presence, power, identity. The name YHWH was so holy it wasn’t even spoken aloud. Instead, Jews said Adonai (“Lord”) as a way of honoring God’s transcendence. To misuse the name meant more than careless speech; it meant mixing God with empty promises, false oaths, or violent agendas. Today, it’s the equivalent of putting God’s name on money. Or invoking God’s name for propaganda purposes. While it’s easy to point fingers, let’s not pretend the church is innocent. We have a long, dark history where God’s name was invoked to bless crusades and inquisitions. Armies marched into Jerusalem with the cry, “Deus vult!”—“God wills it!”—as if Christ himself were swinging the sword. And how many preachers twisted Scripture to defend slavery? Or thundered God’s judgment from pulpits to justify lynchings? How many Christians fell silent as trains carried millions to death camps during the Holocaust. Or as families are torn apart by the cruelty of executive orders? Again, this commandment is less about policing one's vocabulary and more about protecting God’s reputation in the world. The third commandment is a wakeup call for us all. Because right now there’s some politician slapping God’s name on a policy that crushes the poor. That’s breaking the third commandment. Somewhere, right now, there’s a church using God’s name to justify excluding someone from communion simply because of who they love. That’s the wrongful use of God’s name. When we baptize our personal prejudices and grudges in the name of God—this commandment says that’s a no-no. And this should worry us, because we may be doing it without even realizing it. You’ve probably heard the saying, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” It seems innocent enough, … but how many times has it been used as a license to despise the very people God loves? Now, you might be thinking, “How will I know if I’m misusing God's name in a way that will get me in trouble?” If you’re not sure, just ask: Is this love? Love is the barometer. If you invoke God’s name and the fruit of your actions isn’t love, then it isn’t God. And it certainly isn’t Christianity. Like St. Augustine warned, you can’t just claim Christ’s name and refuse what it stands for. Jesus says the way to measure faithfulness is simple: “You will know them by their fruits” (Matt. 7:20). And what is that fruit? That fruit is love. Jesus was clear, “They will know you belong to me by the way you love one another” (John 13:35). Paul drives the point home: “The only thing that counts is faith working through love” (Gal. 5:6). And at the end of the day, when everything else fades, “faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love” (1 Cor. 13:13). And John straight out states, “Those who say, ‘I love God,’ and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars…they do not know God, for God is love” (1 John 4:20). If you wish to protect God’s name from being misused or dragged through the mud then live in a way that makes God’s name synonymous with kindness, mercy, forgiveness, and justice. As Richard Rohr says, “The best criticism of the bad is the practice of the better.” Like Jesus has already told us, all the laws and prophecies fall under this action: love God, love your neighbor as you love yourself. According to Paul, “Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law” (Rom. 13:10). That’s what Christ is all about. And what must be the defining mark of Christianity. Not just speaking God’s name—but embodying it. Jesus shows us how to become the manifestation of God’s love: healing the broken. Dining with the outcast. Forgiving and loving those who mock him. If you want to bear God’s name faithfully then simply love God. Love others. And serve both. This isn’t just a slogan; it’s a way of life. The very way of Christ. So maybe the question for us isn’t, “Am I saying God’s name in vain?” But “When people hear me speak it what do they see?” Is it love? Or judgment? Generosity or fear? God’s welcoming embrace, or a closed door? In the intro of my book, I tell the story about a guy named Don who asked if I would take him to church. He was working the 12 Steps, and had no experience with religion of any kind. And needed a wing man. On the way there, I asked him why he asked me. His answer was surprising. He said, “You’re the only person I met who talked about God without saying damn after it.” Again, this commandment isn’t about censorship—it’s about showing up as God’s incarnate glory. It’s about living in such a way that when people hear the name of God, they think of hope, they find belonging, they experience compassion, and discover the truth. If your testimony of God’s great name shrinks love, if it divides families, or justifies violence against anyone, then you’re abusing God’s name. It’s the same to call yourself a Christian while refusing the way of Jesus. That too is taking God’s name in vain. As Paul reveals, Christ is “the image of the invisible God” (Col. 1:15). To bear his name is to bear God’s very likeness in the world. So, when we forgive as he forgave, welcome as he welcomed, heal as he healed, and serve as he served—then we don’t just avoid misusing God’s name. We make it holy again. That’s our call: to bear God’s holy name in such a way that the world sees God’s glory in and through us. So, let’s go out into Anamesa knowing that every kind word we offer, every generous act that feeds or forgives, every stranger welcomed, every debt forgiven, every sick person cared for, every captive freed becomes building blocks for a community of love—a holy and sacred space where we reclaim God’s reputation and live a life that radiates Christlike love.
Sean is the last of our three to go, which means—for the first time—we’ve crossed into that strange new territory called the “empty nesters club.” I can’t imagine what it’ll be like to step into our house still carrying echoes of the family we made. Their bedrooms that once rattled with music, laughter, and the occasional slammed door will sit unnervingly quiet. The bath towels and toothbrushes will stand in their place. Even though lower food bills will be a pleasing, we know that eating meals will be different. Seats will be empty. Our hearts will ache. Our eyes will sting. If I’m being honest, they already do. Parenthood is this holy paradox: you hold on with everything you’ve got, even as you’re preparing to let go. But we’ve been preparing them for this moment all along: teaching, guiding, praying, and watching them grow into people who can walk into the world without us. I like to believe all three are not only ready to do this, but are able to do it on their own. There's an ancient Hebrew proverb that states, “Train up a child in the way they should go; even when they are old they will not depart from it” (Proverbs 22:6). As my lovely wife will attest, we have done what we can. Now, all we can do is to trust that God carries them the rest of the way.
The poet Kahlil Gibran once wrote, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself…You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.”
We’ve drawn the bow as best we could. Now comes the holy ache of release. And if there is a silver lining, it’s this: we don’t walk into this season alone. We walk with you, this community of love, who carry our stories, cry our tears, share our laughter, and remind us that every ending carries the seed of a beginning. As the door to his dorm room closes, it opens up a whole new world—for him, and for us. And in both, God is already there, welcoming us all home.
Last Sunday we began this series with the first word: “I am Yahweh. Your God. You shall have no other gods before me” (Exodus 20:1-3). We learned how this is a call for fidelity, to trust in God alone. We named how easy it is to set up false gods—and how quickly they capture our devotion. Then, after that service, someone asked why I didn’t mention what happened that week. He wasn’t talking about my book release. He was talking about the shootings. The finger pointing. The outrage. I am sorry I didn’t say anything because I think it would have proven my point on how easy it is to place lesser things between us and God. I know we don't bow to CNN or Fox News. But in order to appease the ratings gods, the networks will do whatever it takes to keep us glued to the chaos. They feed our phones and devices algorithms that feed our outrage and fear. I tell myself, just one more scroll, one more click—but it never satisfies. That’s the dangerous and subtle power of idolatry. It sneaks in, demanding our attention and claiming our allegiance. And most of the time, we don’t even know it. Which takes us to our reading of the second Commandment. “You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above or that is on the earth beneath or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or serve them, for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments. When you think of an idol, what comes to mind? Golden calves? Carved statues? Shrines to long-dead gods? At first glance, those things seem like ancient history. But as you know, they still exist today. Just this week, a 12-foot golden statue of the president holding a giant Bitcoin was placed outside the Capitol. It was pitched as a simple symbol of innovation. But I am sure to many folks, it looks a lot like a tempting invitation to worship wealth and power. Like Psalms 135 states, “Their idols are silver and gold, the work of human hands. They have mouths, but do not speak; eyes, but do not see. Those who make them are like them.” Back then, idols were thought to contained a deity’s power. By holding onto that power, it was believed a person could control it with rituals, and manipulate it with offerings. But the psalm goes on to tell us to put our “trust in Yahweh” who is way too big to be contained, muchless controlled. We might not have shrines to Ba’al in our homes. But idols are still a big part of our culture. I mean, there’s a show literally called American Idol. Our society is drawn to the cult of personality, where fame is revered as sacred. We pour our devotion into celebrities, athletes, influencers, politicians in cult like fashion—offering our fidelity and blind allegiance to people no different than us; excusing behavior we’d never tolerate in ourselves. While admiring someone’s talents and achievements isn’t bad. Venerating them can cause great harm to families, schools and workplaces, to society as a whole. Sports can inspire us, politics can guide us, celebrities can entertain us. But when they distort our love and fracture our communities, they can become idols. When their actions or reactions become your own, they can become idols. Worse, when they inspire you to take someone’s life or livelihood, that’s not fidelity, that’s idolatry. This is also true in religion. If you clutch a tradition so tightly it chokes out love, that’s not God, that’s idolatry. If you defend doctrine so fiercely that there’s no room for mercy, hospitality, and grace that’s not Jesus. It’s idolatry. And, sadly, it’s so engrained in our culture, that it can be hard to see in our own lives. The most dangerous idols aren’t the ones out in the open. They’re the one’s we hold in our heart. The loyalties and attachments we cling to more tightly than God. For some, it’s the idol of fear, the voice that says there will never be enough. I have to hold on to what is mine. Fear pushes others out, …it makes inclusion, compassion and generosity almost impossible. For others, it’s the idol of approval, where likes, applause, and public opinion decide your worth. You find yourself doing whatever it takes to get noticed, instead of resting in God’s delight. There’s the idol of doubt, the quiet suspicion that God isn’t really with us. Or the idol of anxiety that drowns out the still, small voice of God’s peace. The thing is, idols always promise more than they can deliver. They keep us addicted, always grasping, never at peace. But God comes to us with love and says, “I am enough. Let those things go so your hands can be free to accept all that I have to offer.” It’s like when a rich young ruler approached Jesus and asked, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Mark 10:71-31). Mark tells us that Jesus looked at this guy with love, then named the idol holding him back. “You lack one thing. Go, sell what you own, give to the poor, and follow me.” The young man walked away sad because of his wealth. But later in the gospel, I believe we meet him again. Mark points out someone in the garden when they arrest Jesus (Mark 14:51-52). A young man wearing nothing but a linen cloth. When they tried to arrest him, he slipped away—naked—leaving behind his last possession. He gave up everything to follow the way of Jesus, and was free. Julian of Norwich wrote, “God is our clothing, who wraps us and enfolds us for love.” When we are clothed in God’s love, we don’t need the armor of idols. So, the real question isn’t whether we have idols—it’s which ones. Which allegiances have quietly taken God’s place? Which attachments do we need to let go of to be present with God again? Which fears or false securities are stopping you from actually loving God, loving others, and serving both? At its heart of the second commandment is God saying: “Don’t waste your time on things that want to control you. Remember, I have delivered you. I have set you free.” Idols take from you. But God gives. Idols shrink life. But God’s love and grace enlarges life. Idols divide, exclude, and turn neighbors into enemies. But when we trust the living God first and foremost, we have all that we need to build communities of love—spaces where people are cherished not for what they own, or achieve, or promise but belong because they’re made in God’s image. So, what things are keeping you from resting in God’s abundance? What do you need to let go of to be filled to the brim with love, peace, joy, purpose? Let’s not forget, this commandment comes with a promise: God’s steadfast love flows “to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.” Jesus invites us to empty our pockets, open our hearts, and unclench our fists; to let go of the idols that promise safety but never deliver. And in their place, let us open our hearts to be filled with all that God has to offer. As Thomas Merton put it, “The greatest need of our time is to clean out the enormous mass of mental and emotional rubbish that clutters our minds, and make room for God alone.” So, this week, I invite you to pay attention to what you lean on to feel important or safe. Notice what you cling to when you’re scared. Or when the world is falling apart around you. Name it. And if you can, release it. Because God has something better for you. The very heart of God. In God’s heart is the kind of love that can’t be boxed in, bought out, or bargained with. A love that is given to anyone who wants it, without terms or conditions. A love that is trustworthy, constant, and always, always on your side. Together, we get to be a community that bows only to God. A community that walks the way of Jesus, embodying God’s love with every fiber of our being. As you leave here today, take God’s love with you. Hold onto God’s promise tightly. And remember: every idol we release makes a little more room for love to take root. When love takes root, we become the people Jesus dreamed we could be. The world doesn’t need more fear, more blaming, or more division. What it needs—what we need—are people who trust God’s steadfast love more than idols. Work Cited Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, trans. Elizabeth Spearing (London: Penguin Books, 1998), 135. Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1956), 34. In God’s weakest state, the world—and everything in it—is forever changed. Love saves us. That is the gospel Jesus proclaimed.
For years, I read this verse as a meditation on wisdom, not weakness. But lately, I’ve begun to see the deeper paradox: that God’s weakness is, in fact, stronger than my strongest effort. And that weakness is love.
In our cultural moment, something unwise (and disturbing) is happening. Love is being framed as weakness. Compassion is dismissed as “soft.” Empathy is treated as indulgent. We are told that those who practice such foolishness must be weak. Fragile, like snowflakes. And those who promote such ideas equate stupidity with being smart. If this rhetoric was just from the fringes, we could shrug it off as foolishness. But sadly, we’re seeing a resurgence of this kind of toxic thinking—that strength is domination, certainty, or control—is creeping back into our institutions. Into the workplace. Into our politics. Even into the church. Dorothee Soelle once wrote, “God’s power is not the power to dominate, but the power to suffer with and for others.” To the world—especially to those who clutch their weapons—such power looks like defeat. But to Paul, it is the very heart of God. How, then, did the church come to embrace such folly? The great mystic Julian of Norwich reminds us of who we are and who God is: “The love of God creates in us such a unity that when we see and love our neighbor, we see and love God.” This is not weakness. It is a strength that remakes the world. Just as hate ignites more hatred, love begets more love. In God’s weakest state, the world—and everything in it—is forever changed. Love saves us. That is the gospel Jesus proclaimed. By contrast, human perceptions of strength lean on exclusion and control. I have personally seen it in boardrooms where “leadership” is defined by posturing rather than listening. I’ve seen it in political rallies that call compassion naïve while baptizing violence in religious language. And I’ve seen it in churches that reward certainty more than hospitality. I’ve seen all three, up close. And I walked away—from a career, from a political tribe, even from religion itself—to pursue God’s “weakness.” Paul’s letter begins with this reminder: the cross itself—the very symbol of weakness and shame in the Roman world—is the site of God’s greatest power. What empire mocked, God exalted. What the world dismissed as foolish, God called wisdom. So if we’re serious about following the way of Jesus—if we actually want his words to shape us and transform us—then we’ve got to resist the lie that empathy is weakness. We must refuse the temptation to equate love with foolishness. For it is precisely love—long-suffering, tender, and resilient—that dismantles the false powers of domination. “The great paradox of God’s love,” wrote Henri Nouwen, “is that it is most fully revealed in weakness.” So let us live in that paradox. Let us embody the strength of God’s so-called weakness, building a community not on fear or force but on the radical and risky power of love—the very love of God that has brought empires and emperors to their knees. Work Cited Dorothee Soelle — Dorothee Soelle, Suffering (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1975), 37. Julian of Norwich — Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love, trans. Elizabeth Spearing (London: Penguin Classics, 1998), 184. Henri Nouwen — Henri J.M. Nouwen, The Wounded Healer: Ministry in Contemporary Society (New York: Image, 1979), 37.
Like a couple at the altar, acting out of love their respected for one another, the Big Ten commandments begin not with rules, or a checklist of I do’s and I don’ts. It begins with God making a vow to us saying, “Forsaking all others, I choose you.” Many of us, myself included, have often seen the commandments as a kind of blueprint for living rightly with God. But it’s a little more than just that. Notice how it begins. Not with a prohibition, but with a proclamation: “I brought you out of Egypt. I set you free.” God isn’t warning us saying, “Behave, or else.” God is handing us an invitation that declares:“You don’t belong to Pharaoh anymore. You belong to me. You’re free. Now live free.” The First Commandment is all about freedom…and fidelity. This is the foundation of faith, but it’s also an invitation to a loving relationship with God and each other. Where we choose to place our trust, our allegiance, our hope. It’s like God standing at the altar, looking us in the eye and saying, “I do.” Which throws the question to us: How will we respond? Before you answer, think about this. In Jewish tradition, the First Commandment isn’t even called a commandment. It’s called the First Word. Because it starts with God’s self-disclosure: “I am the LORD your God.” Notice the intimacy—not “the God,” but your God. This is covenantal language. It’s intimate, it’s personal, it’s relational. That’s the invitation. And then there’s the Hebrew phrase, ʿal-pānāy — which literally means “before my face.” As in, “Don’t put other things before my face.” It’s like God is saying, “Don’t block the view. Don’t let anything come between us. I just want to see you. All of you.” You see, God wants to be our first priority, our truest, deepest love because that’s who we are to God. Which means we each have to ask ourselves an even harder question: What have I let slip into that sacred space between me and Yahweh ? As you probably know, there’s no shortage of gods out there vying for our attention. Take the shiny god of technology that promises connection, but often leaves us more isolated than ever. Or the god of economic security that whispers if we just stack up enough money, we’ll be safe. But it usually leaves us feeling more anxious, clutching what we have, fearing others will take it from us. As we see unfold every day in the news, the gods of politics, nationalism, and even denominational pride. They demand loyalty by drawing lines between who’s in, who’s out, who’s right, who’s wrong. These gods thrive on exclusion and ego; they say you’re only worthy if you’re right. None of these things are evil in themselves—they can all be good gifts. But when they start asking for our total devotion—our time, relationships, compassion, integrity—they stop being gifts and start being gods. We’ll discuss this more next week with the second commandment on idol worship. But for now, let’s look at Jesus who was tempted in the wilderness. He faced the very same question before us: Who gets your allegiance, your fidelity? The tempter offered him bread to satisfy hunger, power to rule the nations, and spectacle to win followers. Each is an idol in disguise: economic security, political control, religious performance. And to each one, Jesus responded faithfully: “Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only. Where Israel stumbled in the wilderness, Jesus remains faithful. Where we bow to other gods, Jesus shows us another way. His “no” to the worldly gods is a resounding “yes” to the God of love, the God of freedom, the God who alone deserves our trust. In a world where loyalty to tribe, nation, ideology, or class pits us against each other—Jesus points us back to the One whose love unites. A love so abundant, so all-encompassing, that it spills over to everyone God loves. Including you. Me. And every jerk you can think of. That’s why Jesus said this is the greatest commandment: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind, and all your strength” (Mark 12:29–30). Fidelity to God is an invitation into the most profound relationship possible—one that takes in our whole being. But he doesn’t stop there. Jesus also adds: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” (Mark 12:31). The two loves are inseparable. You can’t have one without the other. The way I see it, when those smaller gods creep in, our love for Yahweh and our neighbors shrinks. It makes us stingy, selective, tribal, divisive. This is true no matter what political, economic, or religious side you are on. But when our love for Yahweh comes first, everything else expands—freeing us to build a space where everyone belongs, even the neighbors we’d rather avoid. To quote the Catholic activist Dorothy Day, “I really only love God as much as I love the person I love the least.” Let that quote settles in your heart. I hope it makes you uncomfortable. And forces you to take an honest look at what fills that space between you and God. Because at Anamesa, you’ll find Democrats who are passionate about social justice. And you’ll find Republicans who are passionate about fiscal responsibility. In our community, we’ve got folks drowning in student debt. And retirees worried about their investments keeping up with inflation. Here you will find openly gay people who sit next to folks wrestling with traditional teachings. And somehow we all still get along, still love, still hold each other in faith and fidelity. When we put God first – and not our version of God, not our political spin god, not our cultural conditioning god, but the living God who declared “you are mine,” something remarkable happens. We find that we can disagree deeply about secondary things and still stay united in our primary devotion to the One in whose image we are all made. Right out of the gate, God declares: you are my beloved. And when we honor that, we can love God, love others and serve both—together, as one. Henri Nouwen reminds us that “Community is not a place where people have it all together. It’s a place where each one of us is welcome as we are.” When we put God first, trusting God’s fidelity, we can build communities where love is practiced without restrictions. We can become that sacred space where everyone belongs—even the one who drives you crazy. This doesn’t mean we’ll all think alike or vote alike. We won’t. And we shouldn’t. But what we should do is love alike—with the kind of radical, justice-seeking, mercy-extending love that Jesus embodied. So here’s the call: let’s put down the false gods of tribe, ideology, and fear. And turn again toward the God whose love frees us to see each other as beloved. The gates of Egypt are behind us. The wilderness is before us. And God is in the space between - always faithful, always loving, always uniting. So let’s have no other gods get in the way of this Divine presence and faithfulness. Let’s not allow any false allegiances block our view of the God who wants to see our whole being. This week, I invite you to examine your heart. What are the things that tug at your ultimate devotion, and come between you and God? Name them. And let them go. So that you can face the One whose fidelity never wavers, and say “I do.” To us as a church: let’s keep building a community where God’s love has the first and final word. And may our vow to God become freedom for all, until God’s kingdom is visible and unobstructed among us in the space between.
So I did. I sat down at my desk, and through fear, self-doubt, and a whole lot of coffee, I started writing. And I told myself: Even if no one reads it, I’ll still have done what I set out to do. Now, less than a year later, my first book $h!t Jesus Says: Reclaiming Love in the Kingdom of Heaven is published. It’s a written invitation to remember the dangerous, beautiful simplicity of Jesus’ message: love.
I’m not just sharing this to promote my book, which is available here. No, I’m telling you this because Jesus calls us out of our comfort zones. To risk loving the way he loves—boldly, foolishly, without guarantee of “success.” Not even rejection stopped him from stepping out in love. Just as Jason showed me, the Kingdom of Heaven doesn’t come through playing it safe. It comes when we dare. When we risk. When we love. So whatever your “book” is—write it. Whatever your “campaign” is—run it. Whatever love looks like in your world—live it. Because even if the world doesn’t applaud, you’ll have done what Jesus asked: you’ll have loved.  Never in my wildest dreams or nightmares did I ever imagine I would write a book. But I did. And you can read it. I always had trouble reading due to some uninvited learning disabilities. But I've read this book. And I like it. I think you will too. So, do yourself a favor and buy a copy. In fact, buy a dozen and hand them out to people (christians) who make you made. Published by Apocryphile Press. Check out their other great books at: apocryphilepress.com
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Ian MacdonaldAn ex-copywriter turned punk rock pastor and peacemaker who dedicates his life to making the world a better place for all humanity. "that they all might be one" ~John 17:21Get the Book
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“Prius vita quam doctrina.”
~ St. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) * “Life is more important than doctrine.”
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