Murderers In The Pews

The sixth commandment is terrifying in its simplicity. It contains only two words in Hebrew. There are no qualifiers, no caveats, no explanatory footnotes. God’s voice, thundering from Sinai, is clear and inescapable: “You shall not murder.”And almost instinctively, our hearts exhale. We convince ourselves we are in the clear. We are not Cain. We are not Stalin. We have never pulled a trigger or plunged a knife. We have not ended a life, and so we imagine this commandment has nothing to say to us.

But then Jesus speaks.

In the Sermon on the Mount, He does not raise the bar—He reveals it. He does not increase the burden—He exposes the rot beneath our imagined innocence. “You have heard that the ancients were told, ‘You shall not murder,’ and ‘Whoever commits murder shall be liable to the court.’ But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother shall be guilty before the court” (Matthew 5:21–22, NASB1995). Christ is not innovating here. He is interpreting with divine authority. He pulls back the veil and shows us that murder is not an isolated act of brutality—it is a deliberate rejection of love. It is not merely an act of violence—it is the overflow of selfish anger that simmers in the soul until it spills out in malice.

And this is where the sanctuary becomes a courtroom. This is where the pew becomes the scene of the crime. For we have not come to worship with clean hearts, but with concealed weapons—smiles on our faces and swords in our souls. We nod as the law is read while plotting our vengeance in silence. We bow our heads while cursing our brother under our breath. The murderer is not outside the camp. He is in the congregation. He is us.

Every cold shoulder we offer, every grudge we nurse, every passive-aggressive jab we deliver, every cutting comment we secretly savor, every moment we rehearse an argument to win rather than a prayer to forgive—these are not harmless indulgences. They are the prelude to murder. They are the incubators of death. We may never have spilled blood, but if we have rejoiced in someone’s downfall, or hoped for someone’s pain, or withheld mercy from someone who wounded us, the seeds of Cain are alive in us.

This is where Jesus shines a light not on others, but on us. We do not murder because we are monsters. We murder because we are proud. And nowhere is that seen more clearly than in the life of Cain.

Cain came to worship. He approached the altar. He brought an offering. He looked religious. But beneath the fig leaves of formality was a heart that would not bend. While Abel brought what was costly—blood, symbolizing death to self and faith in God’s mercy—Cain brought what was convenient: produce, a sacrifice that required no death and no repentance. It was the offering of a man who wanted God’s approval without God's terms. And when God rejected it—not out of spite, but out of holiness—Cain did not humble himself. He hardened. He chose envy instead of examination. He brooded rather than bowed. He stewed in silent rage while his brother stood in righteous joy.

And yet God, rich in mercy, pursued him. “Sin is crouching at the door,” the Lord warned, “and its desire is for you, but you must master it.” Cain had light. He had truth. He had an escape route. But he walked past every warning sign and into the field where envy blooms into bloodshed.

Cain brought his offering. Cain came to church. The field began in the sanctuary. The sin did not begin with a weapon, but with worship. And the same is true for many of us.

There, in that quiet field, he killed not a stranger, not an enemy, but his own brother—the one he played with, laughed with, worked beside. He did not shout. He schemed. And then he struck. Murder is rarely a loss of control. It is often a long, slow cultivation of pride, resentment, and suppressed rage. Cain’s path is not foreign—it is familiar. His field is not ancient—it is local. It’s in our homes, our churches, our relationships, our hearts.

Murder happens in marriage—not with bullets or blades, but with calculated indifference, with affection withheld and apologies delayed. It happens in parenting—when fathers provoke their children, when discipline becomes dominance, when the rod is never tempered by delight. It happens in churches—when gossip is sanctified as “concern,” when leaders are slandered behind closed doors, when the sheep bite and devour one another and call it discernment. It happens in friendships—when old wounds ossify into grudges, and pride digs trenches too deep for reconciliation to cross. It happens in the workplace—when we smile at a colleague while secretly savoring their failure, because their success felt like a threat to our worth. It happens on screens—where anonymity emboldens cruelty, and we speak to image-bearers in ways we’d never dare if their eyes met ours. It happens in politics—when disagreement turns to disdain, and opponents are no longer fellow citizens, but enemies worthy of contempt. And it happens in the heart—when we mentally replay every offense, sharpen every comeback, and nurse every wound until we no longer see a brother, but a rival.

In those moments, we are not resisting murder. We are refining it. We are polishing Cain’s dagger with a religious smile.

The commandment may be brief, but it is vast. It is deeper than the Mariana Trench and wider than the longest grudge you’ve ever held. And if we’re honest, it convicts us not as innocent bystanders, but as clean-shaven Cains. We are not merely like Cain—we are Cain. Cain in a collared shirt. Cain with a hymnal. Cain with a Sunday smile and a simmering heart. We are Cain in the pew. And unless we repent, we will follow him—not to a prison cell, but into the same exile: away from the presence of the Lord.

So what will you do, murderer in the pew? Will you rise from worship to walk away, blood still on your hands and bitterness still in your heart? Or will you fall—finally—at the feet of the One whose blood cleanses even the most religious killers?

Because murder is not merely the end of a life—it is the end of love. It is the soul’s declaration of autonomy: I will decide who matters. I will determine who deserves mercy. I will define justice on my terms.

But here, in the midst of our guilt, a louder voice speaks. And it is not the blood of Abel, crying out for vengeance—it is the blood of Jesus Christ, crying out for mercy. Christ is the true Abel, the greater Brother, the innocent Righteous One who was murdered by those He came to save. We, like Cain, envied Him. We, like Cain, rejected His offering. We, like Cain, hated Him without cause. And we, like Cain, delivered Him to death.

But unlike Abel, Christ did not remain in the grave. And unlike Cain, Christ did not cry out for retribution. He interceded for the guilty. He bled for the bitter. He died for the murderers. He was slaughtered by sinners so that sinners might be saved.

His blood does not accuse—it absolves. It speaks a better word than Abel’s. A louder word. A final word. Not vengeance, but forgiveness. Not exile, but welcome. Not condemnation, but cleansing.

And now, in His mercy, He stands at the door—not crouching like sin, but knocking like a Savior. And the question that hangs over every soul is not “Have you murdered?”—for the answer, in one form or another, is yes. The question is: What will you do with the sin that lives in your heart?

You are either with Cain or in Christ.

You either cling to your grudge or you cast it at the foot of the cross.

You either defend your anger or you surrender your soul.

So come. Come not because your hands are clean, but because His were pierced. Come not with your righteousness, but clothed in His. Come not as Cain, hiding in the shadows, but as a child running home to the Father whose Son has made peace by the blood of His cross.

The commandment still stands. The blood still speaks. And Christ still saves.

Let the murderer in the pew repent—and live.