Let's Go Up

I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the LORD!” (Psalm 122.1)

Till Every Exile Comes Home

What gracious Facebook friends I have! Besides linking posts on Straight-Friendly’s group page, I also put them on my personal page, dropping them on family and friends. Every time I post a link, I hear a lot of them groan, “Here he goes with that stuff!” Yet, other than a couple tightly wound Christians, not one has charged me with overstepping. In fact, I’m often surprised and moved by positive responses from people I considered unlikely to show any support. Ever the optimist, I imagine those who’ve not said anything pro or con view the links favorably. Meanwhile, the realist in me argues that many dislike what I do and are too polite to complain. The truth, I guess, lay in the middle. Most probably breeze by my stuff as I do much of theirs, because Facebook is the Land of the Unhidden Agenda, where any and everyone can say what’s on their minds and keep saying it until they’re tired of saying it—usually long after people tire of hearing it. Whether or not my FB friends look kindly on what I say and do there, it’s a smart bet they’re over it by now, many of them wishing I’d give it up and move on. Sometimes I wish I would, too. But I can’t.

When God’s Spirit and Word spoke healing to my heart, it broke anew for multitudes of LGBT and straight believers unjustly ostracized by foul doctrines of fear, shame, and rejection. Assurance that nothing can separate us from God’s love won’t let me quit saying so till every exile comes home. Compared to the task facing those of us who hear the Spirit call the Church to renew its first love—the Gospel of grace, equality, and inclusion—I know my efforts don’t carry a flea’s weight. Yet having so little to offer compels me to do all I can in the biggest way. With regrets to those who are weary with me, I suspect this obsession is with me for life, gaining insistence the closer we get to a day when Christians of every gender, ethnicity, orientation, class, and persuasion are joyfully, freely welcomed by all members of Christ’s Body.

Can—will—that day arrive? Along with believing there’s no good reason why it can’t, I find no use in excuses for why it won’t. Or so says my optimist. It never saw a mountain it couldn’t scale once faith in God’s power and trust in God’s purpose entered the picture. Oddly enough, my realist, who generally sides with logic and skepticism, doesn’t disagree. It does, however, stop short of buying the dream without caveats. Reviving the Apostles’ doctrine of Christ’s acceptance relies on us forsaking prejudices and myths that wormed their way into our traditions, fractured our unity, and corroded our witness. That’s a tall order.

Belittling a Few to Mass-Market Belonging

Since many who govern Christian lives obtained and hold power by preaching fear of rejection, we can’t imagine they’ll champion equality and inclusion. Early in the Christian movement, it became clear the leader with the biggest draw held the most clout. Not a few figured out that barring select groups was the quickest, surest way to pack the house with would-be insiders. For centuries, those charged with advancing the Gospel have built huge, slavishly devoted followings by fueling an intrinsically covetous desire to have what others can’t get. Twisting Scripture every which way—or, if that failed, inventing exclusionary “theologies” from whole cloth—they present the Church as a members-only organization, not the let-everyone-come organism Jesus brought to life with His blood. As a consumer strategy, belittling a few to mass-market belonging couldn’t be more effective; its replication in every ad touting status or getting ahead verifies that. One thing’s certain: it inflates many prelates and pastors’ self-importance and makes a lot of them very rich—every one of them fully aware that hawking the Gospel to endorse exclusion negates Its truth and cheapens the price Christ paid to substantiate It. Exclusion is the most subversive, dangerous doctrine ever visited upon Christ's Church.

You’d expect the shameful history of religious wars, public strife, and private torment brought on by Christian exclusion would cause every leader in every faith community to demand it cease, regardless if they care or even understand that true discipleship is defined and measured by Christ’s command to love God and others without restraint. But here’s the rub. Nullifying doctrines of inequality and exclusion cancels all power to leverage fear of rejection as a control mechanism and campaign tactic, which many in authority can’t afford to do.

Humanly Impossible

Suppose churches literally became what Jesus indicates they should be: safe harbors where none is rejected and all are equally entitled to God’s grace. How would that work? It’s humanly impossible. Despite the New Testament’s outlay of church governance, only a lunatic would try to hold such an unmanageably diverse and needy crowd together. With nothing to fear, what’s not to lose? Without sinners to keep out, there’s nothing to keep saints in. If Jesus means what He says in John 6.37 (“Whoever comes to Me I will never drive away”), and if the Spirit and the Church actually say what Revelation 22.17 says (“Let everyone who hears say, ‘Come.’ And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.”), we’re looking at a managerial nightmare. Not that there will be much to manage. Nobody joins a club that lets anybody in.

My realist urges me not to lose sight of the scarred history, ingrained traditions, and nagging insecurities that plague the priestly caste at the summit of the mountain that my optimist hopes to conquer. Waiting for an invite like the one in Revelation wastes precious time. That offer has stood since Christ stepped out of the tomb. It will forever stand. There’s no excuse for stalling in the valley, starving for community and nurture until those at the top send invitations barreling down the hill. If that’s what it takes to press our way toward inclusion, we ain’t going anywhere for a while, because what we’re waiting on ain’t coming any time soon.

Those occupying the mountain may rule it to their liking. But they don’t own it and can’t stop us from climbing it. So why keep murmuring about high officials and lofty communities too terrified of falling to budge? They don’t have to come to us—and we need to stop wishing they would. What they do or don’t do to end the Church’s long night of exclusion has no impact on us. God gives all exiled believers a fear-free, outrageously joyful answer to their dilemma. It’s not a demand or denial. It’s a decision, delivered on wings of a song that says, “Let’s go up.”

Going to Meet God

I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the LORD.”

Most of us raised in church grew up singing one or another version of Psalm 122.1. Composers have set its lyric in every style and genre—from toe-tapping, let’s-get-our-praise-on versions that emphasize the “glad” end of the sentence to richly sacred hymns that evoke the privilege of entering God’s house. Psalm 122 is the third in a 15-song suite (120-134) known as “The Songs of Ascent,” sung by ancient Jews while climbing Jerusalem’s Temple Mount (a.k.a. “Mt. Zion”) for festival services. These songs surpass others that extol Temple worship. They’re informed with a sense of community and stubborn hope. They span an enormous range of emotions, referring to the best and worst of Israel’s experience. As worshipers look up to the Temple, they repeatedly describe a God Who watches over them. Their joy mounts as they sing; reciting how far they’ve come makes vivid where they’re going. It’s bigger than going to church out of obligation (like many part-time Christians do at Christmas and Easter). They’re going to meet God, every song drawing nearer to God’s dwelling.

A fascinating aspect of The Songs of Ascents surfaces with four (122, 124, 131, and 133) composed by the Temple’s visionary, David, and a fifth (127) by its builder, Solomon. Yet these songs are written like the rest: in the voice of a commoner marveling at God’s goodness and power. Israel’s two greatest kings join the procession—not out of noblesse oblige or politically savvy solidarity. Implicit in their point of view one finds an electrifying confession of faith. This is God’s mountain, God’s house, and they, along with every pilgrim, are God’s people. They own these truths without presumption of owning what belongs to God. Canny recognition of what’s theirs and what’s God’s frees them from inequities and fears that shatter community and sanction prejudice.

David and Solomon leave their palatial heights to ascend Mt. Zion with their people. They surrender authority as Israel’s anointed leaders to honor Who’s really in charge. And while Israel habitually backslides into exclusionary policies, both kings consistently take a hands-off approach regarding elitism. God’s awesome reality in their own lives—made real by keen awareness they’re undeserving of divine favor—stays before them. In Psalm 131.1-2, David writes, “O LORD, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high. I do not occupy myself with things too great and marvelous for me.”

The Spirit of Ascent

This is the spirit of ascent: the mightiest man in Israel admitting he’s not big enough to take the reins from God. Weighty matters exceed his knowledge and authority. Much of what happens around him is unmanageable. What God demands is humanly impossible. Yet David doesn’t grab for control to retain to power and position. He’s so smart about where his authority ends and God’s begins that he celebrates his limits. And when the call goes out—“Let’s go up to God’s house”—he’s thrilled. It’s a little thing. But he does it in a big way.

When we answer the call to go up, we bear in mind our ascent is about meeting God where God dwells. We concede our limitations while doing what we little can in a big way. With that comes a lamentable concession that not every church is a house of God. Many don’t nurture organisms where faith thrives and all are invited to take the living water as a gift. They’re merely clubhouses—organizations whose members define themselves by what they’re not instead of Whose they are. They’re founded on covetous desire to have what those who don’t fit the accepted profile can’t. They preach and practice belittlement to conjure a false sense of belonging, status, and getting ahead. Thus, we have to free ourselves of the idea that boycotting worship because expertly marketed clubs won’t admit us proves anything. Our ascent bypasses such places without a glance. They’re not where we want to be, nor should be. Not being welcome is our first indication they can’t provide what we need. We’re climbing God’s mountain to meet God. Jesus promises never to drive us away. The Spirit and the true Body of Christ says, “Come.” We must own these truths.

A New Normal

In every Christian exile there’s a profound longing for a safe home where none is belittled and all belong. Those we find will, in many cases, be nothing like those we left. Our trek isn’t intended to return us to clubhouses that mock God’s sovereignty and our making. Our ascent leads to homes that defy the norm in obedience to a new normal. Once we start filling up authentic houses of God, members-only mentality will self-destruct. Fear of rejection will lose its luster, and physical, emotional, and spiritual violence born of exclusion will cease. For that to go, however, we must let go fantasies that homes where we’re not wanted or appreciated will suddenly change their ways. Mistaking magical thinking for faith-bred optimism can be as paralyzing and unproductive as stubborn denial.

Though it seems those occupying the summit hold the power and write the rules, nothing could be further from the truth. The power resides in us. The only rules that merit attention are laid out in God’s Word. They’re not hidden in obscure passages or legalistic fine print, either. They’re writ large in Old Testament commands to welcome the stranger and embodied in Christ’s life and teachings. God’s Spirit beckons us to God’s house. Let’s respond gladly. Let’s go up.

You call us to Your mountain, to meet You in Your house, O God. Forgive our reluctance to climb. Make us glad as we go up and lead us safely home. Amen.

There’s no excuse for stalling in the valley, expecting an invitation to come rolling down from those who occupy the top of the hill. Power to go up and meet God resides in us.

The Freedom Plow

Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom. (Matthew 21.43)

I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3.14)

Eyes on the Prize

A first look at Sunday’s readings put me a loss as to what the Lectionary organizers were up to. Each of the four passages is famous. How they fit together wasn’t immediately clear, however. The Old Testament text (Exodus 20) issues The Ten Commandments. Psalm 19 extols the wisdom of keeping God’s laws; the psalmist writes, “More to be desired are they than gold.” (v10) The New Testament selection (Philippians 3.4-14) contains Paul’s moving admission about never being content in his faith; “I press on,” he says. The Gospel (Matthew 21.33-46) renders another vineyard parable—the third in as many weeks—this one replete with ominous overtones, as Jesus tells of tenant farmers who beat and murder everyone the owner sends to collect the rent, including his son.

While the Exodus-Psalm connection is too obvious to miss, the through-line that ties all four readings together is by no means apparent. The linkage between Philippians and Matthew seems tenuous at best. Both Paul and Jesus allude to their final acts. Yet what Paul envisions as a prize, Jesus foresees as criminal injustice. And what either has to do with honoring God’s laws is anyone’s guess.

With Paul contributing the biggest chunk of inspiration, I considered settling there. “Nothing I’ve done compares to knowing Christ,” he says, adding he longs to know Christ more—to identify with Christ’s suffering so he can experience the power of Christ’s resurrection. He concludes with his great declaration: “Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it on my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.”

American slaves immortalized Paul’s legendary “eyes on the prize” passage in a powerful spiritual that Mavis Staples recorded a century later at the height of the civil rights movement.

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on

Got my hand on the freedom plow

Wouldn't take nothing for my journey now

Keep your eyes on the prize, hold on!

The instant the melody wafted through my memory, the pieces fell into place.

Failure to Produce

The villains in Jesus’s story overstep their authority by confusing occupancy with ownership. Not only does their abominable behavior violate civil law. It flouts God’s edicts forbidding thievery, coveting, and homicide. By refusing to pay the rent, whatever they profit isn’t rightfully theirs; they trade in stolen goods. Coveting the owner’s property and status, they mug and murder his agents, who serve as physical reminders the tenants aren’t as high and mighty as they pretend. (When the son calls for the rent, Jesus says their scheme includes usurping his inheritance after they kill him!) The upshot of this heinous tale doesn’t get by its target—the Pharisees. They’re greatly annoyed with Jesus as it is. Since He arrived in Jerusalem for Passover, He’s irritated them at every turn, blatantly taunting them to take action against Him. Portraying them as wicked tenants tacitly charges them with breaking the whole of the Law. In addition to crimes mentioned above, they refute God’s sovereignty, idolize power, renounce holiness, dishonor parents, lie, and commit the spiritual equivalent of adultery by luring God’s people into disgrace to satisfy their egomaniacal lusts. The parable pushes the Pharisees over the edge. Matthew says they react by validating Jesus’s inflammatory depiction of their wickedness: they conspire to kill Him. He has to be got rid of so they can continue running the vineyard as if it’s theirs.

Even as He provokes them to retaliate, Jesus explicitly warns they’ll be their own undoing. “Therefore I tell you, the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people that produces the fruits of the kingdom,” He says. (Matthew 21.43) Failure to produce a worthy harvest will end in eviction. The vineyard’s sole Proprietor won’t hesitate to replace them with tenants who will gratefully, humbly, and faithfully earn their keep. They’ll rein in carnal cravings for power and do the hard work of God’s kingdom. They’ll bear good fruit that pleases God and nurtures God’s people. They’ll honor God’s laws. And, like Paul, they’ll dismiss any credit they may receive to avoid getting bogged down in self. They’ll keep their eyes on the prize and press on.

More of Ourselves

We can erect elaborate hierarchies in our faith communities, bestow impressive titles on our leaders, hang fancy names suggesting we’re in charge on our doors, and dispense with anyone God sends to call us to account—including God’s Son. But nothing can change the fact it’s God’s vineyard and we’re merely tenants. On the other hand, we can humble ourselves to serve God’s purpose and abide by God’s edicts. We can enter the vineyard, intent on working faithfully, seeking no praise for ourselves, pressing ahead with our eyes fixed on the prize. Instead of wielding self-aggrandizing weapons that wound and destroy, we can weld our hands to the freedom plow, uprooting injustice and oppression, nurturing liberty and dignity that every child of God deserves. Until all of us are free, loved, and accepted, none of us is. Our work isn’t finished until the entire vineyard is harvested.

Like the wicked tenants, the religious establishment of Jesus’s day goes too far. Sadly, many in our time do the same. Yet the texts also challenge those of us who abhor religious excess and abuse to demand more of ourselves than we’re presently offering. We can’t exploit fear of going too far to excuse not going far enough. In Luke 9.62, Jesus puts it like this: “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” Forget what you’ve seen wicked tenants do. Forget what you have or haven’t done. Put your hand to the freedom plow, keep your eyes on the prize, and press on.

Search our hearts, O God. Free our minds. If need be, put us in our place. Make us faithful tenants committed to produce fruit worthy of Your kingdom. Amen.

As worthy tenants of God's vineyard we fix our eyes on the prize and plow ahead until all of God's children are free, loved, and accepted.

Secret Heart

You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart. (Psalm 51.6)

Singing Along

Every time I open the Psalms lately, I’m reminded David, Moses, Asaph, the sons of Korah, and other contributors are high-ranking, extremely popular figures—political and religious leaders whose legends precede them. Yet concern for their world, nation, and people drives them to reveal their deepest passions, conflicts, feelings, and aspirations. They cop to weaknesses and attitudes we would never confide to our dearest friends. They model humility by deflecting adoration and honor they receive with rhapsodies of praise for their Creator. At the other extreme, they manifest humanity by complaining to God when things go wrong and, in more than a few instances, accusing God of not caring how lonely, confused, and defeated they feel.

Not only do the psalmists put their inner thoughts in writing; they publish them as hymns for all to sing! Imagine a president or pope composing a comparably self-revealing lyric and sending it to a record producer with a note: “Do all you can to make this a huge hit. The world needs to hear this and sing about it.” Are you kidding? But that’s what the Psalms come down to: songs of highest praise and deepest despair by extravagantly brave people who risk comfort and reputation so those singing along with them can profit from their experience.

For Us

Psalm 51 is a huge hit—then and now—that comes with a preface identifying its producer, composer, and date: “For the director of music. A psalm of David. When the prophet Nathan came to him after David committed adultery with Bathsheba.” We don’t need this info to gather the poem’s writer is messed up; the lyrics tell it all. Still, the archivist wants us to know where the song originates so we can personalize its profound remorse and desperation as we sing.

David writes Psalm 51 during the worst days of the worst scandal of a scandalously checkered career. He’s gone wild with lust for his neighbor’s wife, broken two commandments (“Do not commit adultery,” and “Do not covet another’s wife”) by sleeping with her, and contrived to conceal his error by having her husband killed after Bathsheba tells him she’s pregnant. The whole affair—from David’s naughty peek at Bathsheba taking a bath to his abuse of power to commit murder by proxy and hide his wrongdoing—becomes public knowledge when God sends Nathan to pronounce judgment on the king. The prophet confirms Bathsheba is carrying a son. But joy at this news lasts no longer than it takes for Nathan to inform David the infant’s life will be taken to pay for his crime.

In a matter of minutes, David goes from having it all to losing everything dear to him—happy young wife, new son, adoring public, moral integrity, and, most important, favor with God. If he were alive today, his advisors would counsel him to release a statement acknowledging his bad behavior (without accepting blame or guilt) and lay low until the scandal blew over. David’s too big for such a tiny gesture, however. His loss becomes our gain when he reaches for his pen. As we sing Psalm 51, we recognize where David’s at, because we’ve been there too, and the palpable agony of his contrition steels our resolve never to go there again. It’s for us he composes and publishes his classic poem of repentance.

All That Other Stuff

David pleads with God, “Have mercy on me!” (v1) He begs God to cleanse him. (v2) He admits his sin is ever before him (v3) and the severity of God’s judgment is just. (v4-5) What he says next is most revealing: “You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.” (v6) David got his public persona—the image he constructed to win Israel’s confidence and pride in his leadership—and true identity as God’s handpicked surrogate confused. Popular perception he could do no wrong boomeranged. He began to trust what he projected, rather than what he knew, himself to be. He had no reservations about lusting after another’s wife and the subsequent sins that dominoed into a public relations disaster because he's a king and that’s what kings do. When they spy something they want, they use every means to get it. In his heart of hearts, David knew this was a lie. He understood that true kings are servants. They honor their calling to live honestly before their people and remain faithful to their Maker.

All that other stuff—bravado and meeting expectations and embracing stereotypes—is theatrics we attempt to hide behind even though God sees, knows, and desires us to be truthful about who we are. David was aware of this all along. Yet, in an unexpected moment of weakness, he set it aside. As we sometimes say of ruinously disgraced public figures, he started believing his press. And though we may not be lionized in the media, we might as well confess we're no less prone to permit wonderful things said of our public personae to go to our heads, too. Because we do.

Mistaking Role for Reality

The David who loves God with his whole heart, his secret heart, is only happy if he’s aligned with God’s will and serving others. We know this from his story in 1 and 2 Samuel and even more so from his psalms. When everything God desires has his undivided attention, he’s cranking out anthems about God’s majesty and compassion. He’s mountain-high and untouchable. Let him get preoccupied with his role and it all goes to pieces. The genius behind “The Lord is My Shepherd” and “Let Everything Praise the Lord!” shrivels into a pathetic has-been moaning his latest version of “The Nobody-Loves-Me-Everybody-Hates-Me Blues.” David’s out of sorts because he’s out of touch with truth in his inward being. The king-sized heart he displays isn’t the secret heart where he and God connect—where there’s no reason for pretense, as there he’s free to be the humble shepherd boy tucked inside the monarch’s outsized demeanor.

“Teach me wisdom in my secret heart,” David prays. If he lived today, he’d ask, “Help me keep it real.” Seeing the horrible sorrow and shame David suffers by mistaking role for reality should be plenty to caution us against the same error. People we love or try to love, those who love us or we want to love us pigeonhole us into clichéd, disingenuous roles. (We do likewise with them, by the way.) Yet allowing roles we’re assigned to displace the reality of our inner beings positions us to break God’s laws and forget who we are. The secret heart is a holy place. In it reside the treasures of identity and presence of the Creator Who shaped us and calls us to faithfulness and service. Falling into stereotypical behaviors or living up to arbitrary expectations severs our connection with the secret heart. Psalm 51 provides all the proof we need that unwisely ignoring our inner beings' authenticity takes us down a miserable road that often goes from having it all to losing everything dear to us, including our moral integrity and God’s favor.

Dear God, we may never sing like David. Our finest poetry may not compare to his feeblest effort. Yet, like him, we can’t escape being forced into roles that don’t true to our inner beings. Teach us wisdom in our secret hearts. Help us keep it real. Amen.

As David begs God's forgiveness for the foolish sins that pile into his worst scandal, he wisely asks God to help him keep it real. Psalm 51 is a lesson for us.

People and Things

I have not coveted anyone’s silver or gold or clothing... I showed you by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: "It is more blessed to give than to receive." (Acts 20.33, 35)

Covetousness

When I left my marketing agency job to freelance from home, one of the first lessons I learned was daytime TV can be frightfully seductive. Once it’s got you, it holds you with enticing promises of “what’s coming up next.” Before you know it, the day’s gone. I had to set a policy: No TV. In exchange, I could record one guilty pleasure to enjoy over lunch—assuming I got to eat lunch. So (brace yourselves) I chose “Judge Alex,” a syndicated court show featuring a strikingly handsome Cuban-American jurist with a sense of humor and compassionate streak I admire. Today’s episode about a botched used-car sale between friends—a common complaint—startled me with the announcer's opening summary: “They were closer than close, but material things came between them!” I thought, That’s mighty lofty language for a deal gone bad. Yet as I watched the case unfold and saw how broken trust over a thing irreparably severed the litigants’ friendship, my mind kept inching toward covetousness. I did my best to leash it, because it’s an uncomfortable subject for us. When last did you open a book, click on a blog, or hear a sermon that addressed wanting something so badly you were willing to hurt someone—a loved one, neighbor, coworker, or even yourself—to have it? We just don’t care to discuss it. Instead, we work around it, casting it as the silent partner of sins we view more seriously: greed, lust, envy, deceit, and so on. If covetousness plays a decisive role in so many destructive pursuits—and it does—should we not talk about it as much as, or more than, the rest? How have we got so detached from a sin so tightly affixed to so many weaknesses?

Tenth Out of 10

A big part of the problem originates with The Ten Commandments, where covetousness comes in tenth out of 10. Of course, it’s grossly incorrect (and downright silly) to presume they’re ordered by priority. Still, because they begin with four exceedingly profound edicts that define Hebrew faith and culture—a preeminent God, no idols, devout reverence for His name, and the Sabbath—it’s easy to think of the remaining six as amendments to a divine constitution. What’s more, they also suggest ordinal significance. “Honor your parents” (5) tops this section because those after it concern antisocial behaviors that often result from rebellion and squandered upbringing: “Don’t kill” (6). “Don’t commit adultery” (7). “Don’t steal” (8). “Don’t lie” (9). Then, if we track the relative social and psychological impact of each act, they do appear less consequential by descending rank. Thus, for many, it stands to reason number 10, “Don’t covet” is the least important on the list. “What harm is looking without touching?” we ask. And this is our first mistake, as touching always starts with looking.

We know not to question God’s wisdom in including an anti-coveting law in His precepts. Nonetheless, we’re tempted to minimize its relevance because the original language and grievances it cites are ridiculously archaic: “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house. You shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his manservant or maidservant, his ox or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor.” (Exodus 20.17) The chattel kills it for us—wives and servants defined as male-owned property on par with real estate and farm animals. The examples are so morally repugnant we dismiss the whole thing as indefensible. Taking this tack invites downfall by suggesting since these egregious practices no longer exist, covetousness is not a “modern problem.” But it is. It’s a really big problem. In fact, given how much more we have and our heightened awareness of what others have, it probably poses a bigger threat to us—despite our “progress”—than ancient Israel.

Exploiting Vulnerability

First-century Christians had no issue with calling covetousness by name. It was an evil unto itself—not one folded into “bigger” sins. And it seems they were able to get past the examples to focus on the principle set down to combat the sin’s dangers. Paul, who wrote off most laws as obsolete and irrelevant, makes a point of expressing gratitude for the Tenth Commandment in Romans 7.7: “I would not have known what coveting really was if the law had not said, ‘Do not covet.’” Whether or not its examples were germane to him, they illustrated the principle and that was enough. Indeed, he strikes this note in Acts 20.33-35, as he bids the Ephesians a fond farewell. “I have not coveted anyone’s silver or gold or clothing,” he professes. “You yourselves know that these hands of mine have supplied my own needs and the needs of my companions. In everything I did, I showed you by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”

What’s remarkable about this passage is its usefulness in explaining what Paul means by “I wouldn’t have known what coveting really is” in Romans. “We must help the weak” is the critical link. Covetousness makes the Top Ten by being more invidious than raw lust or greed, envy or deceit because its linchpin is exploiting vulnerability. Once we fix our hearts on getting something that belongs to someone else—be that property position, success, or reputation—it drives us to search for and devise ways to capitalize on his/her weaknesses. We lie in wait for an opportunity to help them fail. We discourage them to our benefit. We take advantage of their trust. Sometimes we even go out of our way to get “closer than close” so things we want from them will come between us.

We needn’t regress to classifying people as property to admit covetousness reduces them to that. There’s no difference between “I’ve got to have that!” and “I want him/her!” The world runs wild with lost souls pouncing on vulnerabilities with the intent of crushing relationships, success, reputations, and hopes. And for what? A lover. A promotion. A leg-up. A laugh. The moment admiration for another’s blessings switches to imagining they can be ours is the instant we sense covetousness at work. If we’re wise, we shut it down before it infects our minds, eyes, ears, and tongues. Covetousness inverts everything Jesus taught and exemplified. It’s an evil unto itself. It compels us to hurt whom we should help, to hate what we should honor. Coveting people and things meets no need. It serves no purpose. When it enters our minds, we need to call it by its name and confront it for what it is.

Coveting inverts everything Jesus taught and exemplified. It compels us to exploit others’ weaknesses. It’s an evil unto itself and we should confront it for what it is.