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Exodus 20:1-21 · The Ten Commandments
When Ten Equals Two
Exodus 20:1-21
Sermon
by Larry Powell
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In the jungles of South America, there lives a peculiar, indolent creature known as the three-toed sloth. Actually named for one of the seven deadly sins, the sloth will spend at least eighteen hours each day sleeping. Even when awake, this lazy creature remains almost motionless. When it does move, its sluggish movements are excruciatingly slow. Being too lazy to indulge in personal grooming, its coarse hair provides a home for two species of bluegreen algae, a cockroach-like moth, and hundreds of beetles. Apparently, the sloth is not anxious about its life, what it shall eat or what it shall drink, nor what it shall put on. One thing is for certain; this lethargic oddity is not in the least concerned with such engaging matters as theology or morality.

This is not to condemn the sloth for being unable to do what it was not designed to do, but rather to distinguish the animal kingdom from humankind, which was designed to specifically pursue what the animal cannot - theology and morality. Aristotle concluded, "It is characteristic of man that he alone has any sense of good and evil, or just and unjust, and the like." And in one of the pivotal verses of the entire Bible, we read, "So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them" (Genesis 1:27). We are, therefore, accountable and understandably curious, curious as to our relationship to the Almighty and to our fellows. What does God expect of us and how are we to conduct our affairs among our own kind?

From earliest times, human sacrifices, the slaughter of animals, food offerings, and self-mortification were practiced by those generations whose primitive notions caused them to confuse brutality with devotion to gods of various names. Morality, more often than not, was an unwritten code revered as a matter of social preservation, usually differing from tribe to tribe. Religion, it seemed, was little more than smoke from a self-kindled fire. If only there was some standard, some prescription from the cosmic vacuum, an edict from the fathomless silence.

It is against this background that Sinai looms, not just as a mountain, but as something of a massive divine Rosetta Stone: "And God spoke all these words saying ..." And when the thunder and lightning had subsided and the mountain had ceased smoking, the people of Israel had come into possession of a prescription emblazoned upon stone tablets: the Asereth Haddebarim (Ten Words); Eth Berithi (My Covenant); the Hattorah (Law).

The Ten Commandments appear in the Old Testament as conditions of a covenant between God and his chosen people. According to the scriptures, the finger of God inscribed the commandments on two stone tablets given to Moses on Sinai. Moses later became enraged at the idolatry of his people, smashed the tablets, and engraved them onto other stone tablets. It has long been commented by preachers that the Commandments were appropriately carved into stone to prevent them from being "bent." They could be broken, but not bent. The Israelites housed the tablets in a wooden box called the "Ark of the Covenant," which, in addition to being kept in a special place, was borne ahead of Hebrew armies into battle as the sure sign of God’s presence. Indeed, the prescription had been given and the cosmic vacuum had been filled.

However, we are still on the trail of theology and morality, are we not? As it happens, the Commandments are divided into two tables. The first table includes the first four* (*As Lutherans count them, three.) Commandments, which contain a legitimate theology relative to one’s service to God, a service to be performed out of a sense of reverence and majesty.

One wonders to what extent reverence is still a part of the modern experience. I am not speaking now of the polite nod or mental tip-of-the-hat which one solemnly executes in the presence of things which inspire those kinds of gestures, wherever and whatever they may be. I am speaking of the kind of reverence which leaves one slack-jawed, awe-inspired, elevated above the ordinary. Sometime ago, it was my privilege to visit St. Giles Cathedral in Edinburgh, Scotland, and to be absolutely overwhelmed by a sense of God’s majesty. One feels incredibly small in the midst of something so magnificent. From Edinburgh we went on to London, England, to visit Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s. Neither words nor photographs can approximate the sheer space and beauty so exquisitely synthesized in these grand cathedrals. The architecture, the meticulous attention given to the minutest appointments, the incredible vastness which itself proclaims that "God is great and greatly to be praised," - this and much more causes one to realize that God "is truly in this place." Moreover, because God was reverenced in the creating of these edifices of praise, the inherent reverence strikes upon some sublime chord in the soul of all who enter. Eyes widen to survey each symbolic, inaudible statement. No space is wasted, no article unnecessary. Visitors become worshipers, stepping lightly, speaking in low whispers, and kneeling privately in their souls, if not upon some sacred spot.

I have thought of this experience many times while observing worshipers enter other places of worship, continuing conversations which had begun outside. The organ prelude, I fear, is frequently taken to be a pleasant background for the chatter of pre-worship. Certainly, the attitude of reverence is not the same. There is more truth than poetry in Robert Louis Stevenson’s remark, "I never weary of great churches. Mankind was never so happily inspired as when it made a cathedral." Again, if the first four* (*As Lutherans count them, three.) Commandments contain one’s service to God as being performed out of a sense of reverence, we can but wonder to what extent reverence is still a part of the modern experience.

The first table relates:** (**Lutherans: (1) You shall have no other gods ... (2) ... the name of God ... (3) ... the Sabbath ...) (1) you shall have no other gods before me; (2) do not worship idols; (3) do not take the name of God in vain; (4) remember the sabbath. The elaborations here are limitless, but the hinge word which encompasses the whole is reverence.

The second table is no less demanding. As the first four* (*As Lutherans count them, three.) Commandments prescribe one’s reasonable service to God, the remaining six* (*Lutherans: Seven, the last two of which deal with coveting.) prescribe one’s service toward others: (5) honor your father and mother; (6) do not kill; (7) do not commit adultry; (8) do not steal; (9) do not bear false witness; (10) do not covet. Perhaps the hinge word here is respect. Without respect for parents, human life, neighbor, property, truth, and achievement, the second table is unintelligible. Lack of respect may be the result of, among other things, ignorance, arrogance, crudeness, or stupidity.

Alexander H. Stephens, the diminutive, thin-faced Georgian who compensated for his physical infirmities by honing his intellectual capacities to a razor-sharp edge, was a much-loved Southern statesman. Excelling at Law, his mental astuteness was tempered by a caring, genuine generosity toward his fellow man. His home at Crawfordsville, Georgia, included a room designated as the "Tramp’s Room," in which any wayfaring stranger in need of lodging could take his rest. Not far from Crawfordsville, another Georgia statesman, Robert Toombs, resided in the community of Washington. Toombs, unlike Stephens, was a large, blustery, bullish personality given to hyperboles and sweeping insults when intimidated. Once, on the floor of the General Assembly, Toombs brought down his wrath upon Stephens in order to aggrandize himself. "Why, if I had a mind to," Toombs boasted, "I could swallow Alexander Stephens whole." To which Stephens replied, "And if you did, you would have more brains in your stomach than in your head."

We are on the trail now of morality, on the assumption that it is the result of a transformed ego which translates self-respect into respect for others. Love is the word we are reaching for, but it is not yet within our grasp. Reach farther.

Samuel Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford, once addressed a meeting of a Scientific Society. Darwin’s "Origin of the Species" had been published the year before and both the learned and unlearned had bantered the merits and demerits of Darwin’s proposition. It was common knowledge that Wilberforce utterly deplored the work and had spoken scathingly of it from the pulpit. The chairman of the Scientific Society instructed Wilberforce to refrain from mentioning the controversial subject in his remarks. It was also pointed out to the good Bishop that, although Darwin was not present, his good friend Thomas Huxley was. The Bishop proceeded to warm to his assigned topic and presently waxed eloquent, showing signs of brilliance. In time, however, he began to run short of material and digressed to the theme which he had been asked to avoid.

A number of misstatements, reckless accusations, and prejudice-filled outbursts followed. In desperation, perhaps attempting to seize a place to conclude, he pointed a finger at Huxley and said, "I wonder if the learned gentleman in the front of me is willing to be regarded as the descendant of a monkey?" With that, he sat down, his lack of respect for either Darwin or Huxley apparent. There was wild applause. Then, there went up the cry, "Huxley, Huxley!" The Society wished to hear Huxley’s reply. Huxley sat silently, unwilling to be so obviously manipulated. Finally, Wilberforce, thinking he had rendered Huxley speechless by the power of his eloquence, himself confidently took up the chant, "Huxley, Huxley!"

Huxley slowly got to his feet. Stoically, he commented that since he had been brought into the matter, he would confess that, if the alternatives were a descent from a respectable monkey on the one hand, or, on the other hand, from a Bishop of the Church of England who would stoop to misrepresentations, insulting a man of Science who was not present, "I would declare in favor of the monkey."

There are times when we would be tempted to declare in favor of the monkey. (1) A large group of people, some of them mothers with babies in their arms, yelled to a young girl atop a water tank threatening to jump. The crowd encouraged her to jump. She did. (2) A homemade bomb was exploded in a department store, killing seventeen people. The bomb was discharged because a man felt he had been insulted by a salesclerk the previous day. (3) A man was convicted of inserting pins into Halloween candy and sent to prison. Other prisoners were so sickened by his crime that they beat him to death. (4) A dope peddler was apprehended handing drugs through a chain-link fence to grade school children. (5) Two youths brutally beat a ninety-year-old couple, then set fire to their house, burning them alive.

If given a choice between identifying with certain characters of our kind, against the alternative of descending from a respectable monkey, there are times when we would incline to agree with Huxley and "declare in favor of the monkey."

Love is the word we are reaching for. Theologically, there is a greater relationship between God and humanity than reverence. Morally, there is a greater relationship between ourselves and our fellows than respect. Love is the word we are reaching for. It is inherent in the first four [three] commandments. "Because God first loved us." It is inherent in the remaining six [seven] commandments as later simplified by Jesus: "Love ye one another." Actually, both tables are summarized succinctly in the words, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and soul and strength and mind; and love thy neighbor as thyself." The rationale is that, if these two commandments are steadfastly observed, it becomes unnecessary to list the others - they would be unthinkable infractions.

Ovid, an ancient poet, tells of a gifted young sculptor of Cyprus named Pygmalion. Pygmalion despised women and resolved never to marry. Ironically, he set about with hammer and chisel to produce the statue of a woman in order to display it as a mockery. For many days, and frequently well into the night, he chiseled. A form began to emerge which arrested him. The blows from the hammer became softer now. Finesse and devotion occupied his every movement. Beneath his skillful fingers, the figure became more and more beautiful, until at last, no further improvement could be made. Such grace, such beauty had she; so lifelike, was she, she must have a name, a name by which he could address her. Galatea would be her name and she must have a robe, and gifts, and flowers. Pygmalion had fallen desperately in love with a lifeless piece of marble. He would not pretend. He spoke to her, held her hands in his, and reached out in his heart to the very thing he had created. Such was his continuing, all-giving love that, according to Ovid, Pygmalion literally loved the lifeless form of Galatea into a living being.

This ancient legend contains a truth greater than itself. It is not "theologically" inclusive, "morally" exhaustive, nor perhaps not even philosophically "respectable," but it brings the word for which we have been reaching into closer proximity. God "loved" his creation into being. We have been made alive, capable of seeking reverence, morality, and loving because "God first loved us." The Ten Commandments were not pressed down upon the shoulders of humanity as burdensome restrictions, ideals beyond our capacity to achieve, but were instead gracefully revealed, lovingly prescribed in order that humanity might know that what may have appeared as a cosmic vacuum is actually a boundless reservoir of love. The fathomless silence eternally shouts from two indelible tables containing ten statements, paraphrased into two: "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and soul and strength and mind; and love thy neighbor as thyself."

Moses was the mediator of the covenant on Sinai. Christ was the mediator of the covenant on Calvary: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son." The covenant was conceived in love, sealed in love, and sustained in love.

"But," you may say, "the Ten Commandments were prescribed for an ancient time and are not relevant for the twentieth century; and besides, has not Christ fulfilled the Law already?" Antiquated? Consider the morning newspaper, the ten o’clock news, and the testimony of human experience. Christ has fulfilled the Law for us already? It is nowhere implied in the scriptures that we are personally exempt from idolatry, swearing, stealing, coveting; in short, reverence and morality have not been rescinded.

The South American three-toed sloth is not concerned with such matters as reverence and morality, nor incidentally, is a "sloth" wherever he is found; but thinking people are concerned. There are two tables: How am I to respond to the God who first loved me? And, how shall I love my neighbor as myself? Gracefully have they been given and only through grace can they be observed.

Now when all the people perceived the thunderings and the lightnings and the sound of the trumpet and the mountain smoking, the people were afraid and trembled; and they stood afar off, and said to Moses, "You speak to us, and we will hear; but let not God speak to us, lest we die." And Moses said to the people, "Do not fear; for God has come to prove you, and that the fear of him may be before your eyes, that you may not sin." (20:18-20)

CSS Publishing Co., Inc., On His Way, by Larry Powell