The Big Ten: Murder (don't do it)

Gift of the Artists' Poster Committee with funds provided by the ICP Acquisitions Committee, 2002

"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."

For years I used to commute from Sherman Oaks to Santa Monica. If you don’t know, it’s roughly 10 miles each way. And each trip took about an hour, on a normal day.

The most direct route was the 405 or what is also known as the ninth circle of hell.

One day, while inching my way up the on-ramp, … to merge with the hundred of thousands of other drivers the car behind me started honking. It wasn't a polite little beep-beep. But a full-blown symphony of rage.

I looked in my mirror just in time to see this woman shouting something. I couldn’t hear her above the honking, but her gestures suggested it had something to do with killing me because I somehow caused all the traffic.

Now here’s where it gets funny, in a sad sort of way. As this woman made her way past me, I noticed her bumper sticker said, “Jesus take the wheel.” It’s possible Jesus would honk at us, but probably not in such a violent way.
 
If you’re like me, you probably made it through the week without breaking this next commandment. But as we take a deeper dive into the Big Ten, you might have second thoughts.

​Turns out, you don’t need a weapon to break this one—sometimes all it takes is a horn and a crowded freeway.

​Here's what is written:

"You shall not murder."
                     ​             Exodus 20:13

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).