She found the old stone tucked deep inside a thrift store shelf, buried beneath cracked dishes and tarnished spoons. A small plaque, heavy and chipped, with faded lettering that read: “Thou shalt not…”—the rest obscured by time. She almost didn’t buy it. But something drew her to it. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was the weight.
"Are these just rules?" she asked herself that night, holding the stone in her hands. "Or are they invitations?"
Centuries ago, on a mountain trembling with smoke and cloud, God gave Moses ten divine words. Not just ten rules, but ten revelations of His heart. He spoke them plainly:
“I am the Lord your God… You shall have no other gods before me.” (Exodus 20:2–3)
There it began—God revealing not just what pleases Him, but who He is. A faithful God. A holy one. And in His mercy, He gave these commands not to control, but to protect. Like warning signs on a dangerous road, they were never meant to fence us in—but to keep our hearts safe on the journey toward Him.
But perhaps today, we look at the Ten Commandments like that forgotten plaque—outdated, irrelevant, something from a slower, stricter world. Don’t murder? Of course. Don’t steal? Simple enough. But honor your father and mother? Rest every seventh day? Don’t covet my neighbor’s life?
Do these words still speak?
Jesus seemed to think so.
When asked what mattered most in all the law, He didn’t toss out the Ten. He wove them into something even deeper. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind… And… love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Matthew 22:37–40)
In other words, the Ten Commandments have never been about cold obedience—they’re about warm relationship. The first half teaches us how to love God: no idols, no misuse of His name, rest in His presence. The second half shows us how to love people: honor, life, fidelity, honesty, contentment.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—that ache of wanting to do what’s right, but not knowing where to begin. The commandments give us a place to start. They are God’s whispered boundaries: Here, you are safe. Here, you learn love.
A mother teaches her child not to touch the stove, not because she's mean—but because she knows the sting of the burn. God does the same. He etched His commands in stone so that we could etch them into our hearts.
And where we've failed them—and we all have—Jesus fulfilled them. He walked the dusty paths of Galilee keeping every syllable. Not to boast, but to cover us. Grace does not cancel the law—it carries it forward in love.
So when the world says, “Follow your truth,” and culture shifts like sand beneath our feet, the Ten still stand. They steady our steps. They guide our choices. Not because we’re trying to earn favor, but because God already gave it. Obedience becomes a love song, not a ladder.
I’ve seen it in my own life. Every time I return to “You shall not covet,” I’m reminded there's peace in gratitude. When I rest on the Sabbath—even if just by putting down my phone—I hear clearer. When I tell the truth, even when it’s hard, I feel lighter. God knew what He was doing. He always does.
The Ten Commandments were never just about what not to do. They are about becoming fully alive, fully human, fully His.
And maybe your heart needs that reminder today.
Maybe you're holding old regrets or new questions. Maybe the world feels loud and unclear. Find a quiet place. Read Exodus 20 again—but this time, don’t read it as a list. Read it like a letter. From a Father who loves you. A God who promises, “I am the Lord your God.”
And always will be.
Not old rules—but timeless truth.
She found the old stone tucked deep inside a thrift store shelf, buried beneath cracked dishes and tarnished spoons. A small plaque, heavy and chipped, with faded lettering that read: “Thou shalt not…”—the rest obscured by time. She almost didn’t buy it. But something drew her to it. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was the weight.
"Are these just rules?" she asked herself that night, holding the stone in her hands. "Or are they invitations?"
Centuries ago, on a mountain trembling with smoke and cloud, God gave Moses ten divine words. Not just ten rules, but ten revelations of His heart. He spoke them plainly:
“I am the Lord your God… You shall have no other gods before me.” (Exodus 20:2–3)
There it began—God revealing not just what pleases Him, but who He is. A faithful God. A holy one. And in His mercy, He gave these commands not to control, but to protect. Like warning signs on a dangerous road, they were never meant to fence us in—but to keep our hearts safe on the journey toward Him.
But perhaps today, we look at the Ten Commandments like that forgotten plaque—outdated, irrelevant, something from a slower, stricter world. Don’t murder? Of course. Don’t steal? Simple enough. But honor your father and mother? Rest every seventh day? Don’t covet my neighbor’s life?
Do these words still speak?
Jesus seemed to think so.
When asked what mattered most in all the law, He didn’t toss out the Ten. He wove them into something even deeper. “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind… And… love your neighbor as yourself. All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Matthew 22:37–40)
In other words, the Ten Commandments have never been about cold obedience—they’re about warm relationship. The first half teaches us how to love God: no idols, no misuse of His name, rest in His presence. The second half shows us how to love people: honor, life, fidelity, honesty, contentment.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—that ache of wanting to do what’s right, but not knowing where to begin. The commandments give us a place to start. They are God’s whispered boundaries: Here, you are safe. Here, you learn love.
A mother teaches her child not to touch the stove, not because she's mean—but because she knows the sting of the burn. God does the same. He etched His commands in stone so that we could etch them into our hearts.
And where we've failed them—and we all have—Jesus fulfilled them. He walked the dusty paths of Galilee keeping every syllable. Not to boast, but to cover us. Grace does not cancel the law—it carries it forward in love.
So when the world says, “Follow your truth,” and culture shifts like sand beneath our feet, the Ten still stand. They steady our steps. They guide our choices. Not because we’re trying to earn favor, but because God already gave it. Obedience becomes a love song, not a ladder.
I’ve seen it in my own life. Every time I return to “You shall not covet,” I’m reminded there's peace in gratitude. When I rest on the Sabbath—even if just by putting down my phone—I hear clearer. When I tell the truth, even when it’s hard, I feel lighter. God knew what He was doing. He always does.
The Ten Commandments were never just about what not to do. They are about becoming fully alive, fully human, fully His.
And maybe your heart needs that reminder today.
Maybe you're holding old regrets or new questions. Maybe the world feels loud and unclear. Find a quiet place. Read Exodus 20 again—but this time, don’t read it as a list. Read it like a letter. From a Father who loves you. A God who promises, “I am the Lord your God.”
And always will be.
Not old rules—but timeless truth.
