An Inconvenient Commandment

​Most mornings, before the day unfolds in full, I try to quiet myself before God. Sometimes the Scripture gives me clarity. Other times, it raises more questions than it answers. What follows is a reflection that captures the tension I often feel—between my desire to love well and the complicated, messy reality of doing that in real life.
 
Well, okay, here I am at the beginning of another day. I want to do the best I can, and that means doing right by God. I want to walk in the light, not just with words, but in action. But what exactly is the Lord’s will for my life? That question has no easy answer, not in every moment. I read Leviticus 9:18: “…you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.” Jesus, when asked by the scribe in Mark 12:31, pointed to that same commandment, linking it tightly with one’s love for God. That has to mean something foundational. But there is so much ambiguity! Love your neighbor—how? Where does care become enabling? Where does a healthy boundary become self-protective apathy? Where do I draw the line? How do I show that love in a real, concrete way that honors God and doesn’t just serve my comfort or my image? How much do I give, and how do I know when enough is enough?

I have a friend who’s disabled and struggling financially, emotionally, and spiritually. He’s often excluded and misunderstood. He doesn’t fit the neat  mold of how we imagine gospel stories where Jesus walks into town, someone calls out in faith, and the healing is instant and joyful and clean. My friend is more complicated. He can be difficult. He can be selfish. He is also funny. He can be quick with a joke or a moment of unexpected warmth. He’s kind in ways that catch me off guard—sending me a thoughtful message, remembering something I said weeks ago. At times, he can also be frustrating. He asks for more than I want to give, and he doesn’t always say thank you. It’s not a miracle moment; it’s slow, tiring work. At times, helping him can feel more like a burden than a blessing. I confess that I have felt it would be easier to ignore him. I could offer a quick prayer, make a vague promise to check in, and then move on to something more productive, more fulfilling, something that feels like it “makes a difference.” But that would be dishonest. He is one of God’s children. Just like me. And loving my neighbor as myself doesn’t come with an exception clause for inconvenience or emotional drain.

Let me look at this book again. It’s easy to romanticize Jesus’ ministry, but things weren’t always simple in his time either. When Jesus passed through Jericho and saw Zacchaeus in the tree, he didn’t pause to judge whether Zacchaeus had earned his attention. He didn’t demand restitution first or ask for a statement of repentance. He just said, “Come down. I’m going to your house today.” It shocked everyone watching. Zacchaeus was a tax collector—compromised, disliked, and wealthy from the backs of others. And the truth is, I’m not just the person trying to help a struggling friend—I’m also Zacchaeus. I’ve chosen the easier path more times than I want to admit. I’ve looked out for my own comfort, avoided what’s messy, walked past need when it didn’t fit my schedule or expectations. I’ve climbed up into my own version of that tree—keeping a safe distance, observing from above.

Jesus sees me there, too. He doesn’t shame me for my reluctance or disqualify me for my failures, but calls me to come down. He wants to be with me, even when I’ve made a habit of sidestepping the harder parts of love. Jesus went to the cross not just for the grateful, not just for the healed, but for people like me, like my friend, like Zacchaeus—sinners, skeptics, complainers, and ingrates alike. He cleared the way not for a tidy moral performance, but for a life rooted in grace. That’s the life I want to live today. God help me.

Yours in Christ,

Rev. Josh McDaniel
Pastor of Students & Missions