This week, we come to the final two commandments, Nine and Ten. They cover the same thing: you shall not covet your neighbor’s house, spouse, or anything else that belongs to them. Coveting simply means to desire to take what belongs to our neighbor.
And we might think that these two commandments are the least grave of the Ten. After all, we know that the first three concern our relationship with God. The fourth concerns our parents, who serve, for better and worse, as God’s representatives on earth to us. And the last six concern our relationships with other neighbors. We might think there’s a hierarchy here. Isn’t murder worse than stealing? Isn’t adultery worse than coveting someone’s spouse?
But there’s a surprise to the whole Ten. We finish not with the least bad sin, but the place from which all other sins spring: the grasping, envious, greedy heart that wants what does not belong to it. The Ten Commandments are not so much a descending list as a cycle. The doubling of the last two should be read as emphatic, as in “Seriously guys, don’t covet!”
This is clear from the very beginning of Scripture. In the Garden, our first parents wanted what didn’t belong to them. Egged on by the serpent, they not only desired the fruit, but what they thought the fruit could give them: the chance to be like God, perhaps even to be God. Of course, they were already made in the image and likeness of God, but the serpent conveniently didn’t remind them of that. Their coveting hearts reached out for divinity and discovered only shame and blame. The prophet Jeremiah reminds us that “the heart is devious above all things”. And Jesus really cuts to the quick, saying: “…it is from within, from the human heart, that evil intentions come: sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, avarice, wickedness, deceit, debauchery, envy, slander, pride, folly. All these evil things come from within, and they defile a person.”
Which gets to the point. God is not just concerned with what we do. God is concerned with our whole selves, including thoughts and feelings—what we might call our “heart condition”. Indulge me in a little thought experiment. Imagine that we each could receive a printed document of all our thoughts for the previous 24 hours. (Individually, of course!) All feelings about other people, all judgments, all desires, all frustrations. Might you be surprised? Shocked? Embarrassed? Or would you nod your head and think, “That seems about right”? The point is that no matter how good we think we are, no matter how much we get it right on the outside, that old Adam or Eve in each of us doesn’t want to let go. Luther pointed this out in the Large Catechism, writing: “This last commandment, therefore, is not addressed to those whom the world considers wicked rogues, but precisely to the most upright—to people who wish to be commended as honest and virtuous because they have not offended against the preceding commandments.”[1] It’s for good church people: respectable folks who try to do the right thing most of the time. And yet, our thoughts are often less than respectable. There is envy in all of us. There have been times when we’ve wanted that house or that car. Or that person’s reputation or level of success. Or that kind of power or control. Or even that kind of town or church (whatever that might mean). And to make matters worse, we can also presume to judge whether or not someone is worthy of what they have. This all leads to grievance and resentment, which poisons us individually and communally. That’s when we start looking for someone to blame, just like in Eden. Why don’t I have what I “deserve”? It must be “you-fill-in-the-blank’s” fault.
All this is to say that no matter how well we think we have it together, these commandments are a rude wake-up call, pointing out the envy and resentment that we get stuck on, not perceiving the great gifts that God has already given us.
And one of the biggest gifts of all is letting go. Letting go of what we think we deserve, letting go of the sins of others, letting go of the harmful expectations we can have for ourselves, our neighbors, or even for God. The love of God revealed in Jesus shows us that our identity is not in our jealousies or grievances. It is not in being part of a particular political party or behind a particular ideology. It is not in what we have or don’t have; who our children are; our family line; or who we’re married to or divorced from. It is not even, finally, in the church we belong to, the town or state we live in, or the nation we are citizens of. Our identity rests in being a washed, claimed, and redeemed child of God, wherever we may be in life. We are welcomed here, at this table, to receive the gift of life in Jesus’s body and blood which forgives all our sins. Every week, we return to Word and Sacrament for a fresh start. To repent and receive, which is the whole practice of the Christian life. And to be grateful for all we enjoy.
And that is what improves our heart condition. Not something that we do or don’t do, but only the work of Jesus Christ on our broken hearts in this broken world. The work of Christ is the love of God, shown not in domination or vengeance, but in suffering and the cross. In Jesus Christ, God gives us everything. What Jesus is by nature, God makes us by adoption. We belong to the royal family of God. Nothing is worth more than that. Amen.
© 2026, David M. Fleener. Permission granted to copy and adapt original material herein for non-commercial purposes.
[1] Robert Kolb, Timothy J. Wengert, and Charles P. Arand, The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2000), 426.
