The Preacher's Lectionary Notebook - The True Measure of Faith
The Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany (Year A)
In Micah 6, The mountains and hills, ancient and unmoving, are summoned to listen as the Lord brings a case against Israel. This isn’t because God needs backup or evidence—creation already knows the story—but because the people seem to have forgotten who God is and what God has done. The scene feels heavy, but it’s also intimate. God isn’t raging or thundering accusations. Instead, God asks a heartbreaking question: “What have I done to you? How have I wearied you?” It’s the voice of a covenant partner who feels betrayed and genuinely wants an answer.
God then rehearses the story of rescue, not to boast but to remind. The exodus from Egypt, liberation from slavery, protection from curses, safe passage from Shittim to Gilgal—this is the shared memory Israel is supposed to live out of. Micah makes clear that faith is shaped by history. Israel’s identity is rooted in a God who acts decisively for the sake of the vulnerable. Forgetting that story leads to distorted worship and warped ethics, and that’s exactly what Micah is confronting.
The people respond, but their response shows how deeply they’ve misunderstood the problem. They assume God must want more religion. More sacrifices. Bigger offerings. Burnt offerings, thousands of rams, rivers of oil—an escalation that borders on absurd. Then the question reaches its darkest edge—Would God want my firstborn? It’s a chilling moment, revealing how fear-driven and transactional their understanding of God has become. They’re willing to offer everything except the one thing God actually desires.
Micah 6:8 cuts through the confusion with stunning simplicity. God has already made it clear what is required, and it isn’t complicated or mystical. It’s ethical and relational—do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God. Justice here isn’t just fairness in theory; it’s active, concrete faithfulness to the needs of others, especially the poor and oppressed. Kindness—hesed—is covenant loyalty, steadfast love that refuses to treat people as expendable. And humility isn’t self-loathing or passivity; it’s living attentively before God, aware that life is a gift and power is never ultimate.
What makes this passage so unsettling is how ordinary God’s expectations are. There’s no loophole, no way to substitute performance for character. You can’t offset injustice with worship or cover cruelty with generosity. Micah insists that the true measure of faith shows up in how we treat others and how we carry ourselves before God. Ritual without righteousness is noise. Piety without justice is fraud.
Micah still speaks because it refuses to let religion become an escape from responsibility. It pulls us back to the basics—not as a checklist, but as a way of life shaped by gratitude and trust. God isn’t asking for extravagance or spectacle. God is asking for a people whose lives quietly, consistently reflect the character of the One who rescued them.
FOR FURTHER EXPLORATION
What does it look like to practice justice in ordinary, everyday situations rather than just in big public causes?
In what ways might religious activity distract us from actually loving kindness and faithfulness toward others?
How does remembering God’s past faithfulness shape the way we walk humbly with God today?