Exodus Chapter 20 – A Commentary & Explanation (Verse by Verse)
Exodus Chapter 20 – A Commentary & Explanation (Verse by Verse)
with Hebrew & Greek word comparisons
Sometimes when I sit with Exodus 20, I kinda feel like I’m sitting near the foot of that mountain myself—like the dust is settling around me and the air is shaking with something… something that feels older than time. The chapter doesn’t just “give rules.” It thunders with revelation. You can almost smell the burning on the wind, like hot stone after lightning, and hear the echo of the divine voice rolling across the wilderness.
So let’s walk through it slowly. Stumbling a little. Feeling the weight and warmth. And exploring the ancient Hebrew words, and sometimes their Greek (Septuagint) renderings, because honestly, those little shades of meaning—they bring a strange, living color to the text.
I’ll move verse by verse, though sometimes I drift into thoughts and back again, the study sometimes flows.
Verse 1 — “And God spoke all these words…”
Hebrew starts with
וַיְדַבֵּ֣ר אֱלֹהִ֔ים vayedabber Elohim
— literally “and God spoke.”
The verb דבר (davar) means to declare, to arrange words, but also implies something firm, almost structured. This wasn’t emotional rambling. It was crafted, intentional speech.
The Greek Septuagint renders:
καὶ ἐλάλησεν ὁ Θεός (kai elalēsen ho Theos)
— “and God uttered.”
The Greek verb λαλέω (laleō) often has a personal tone, like speaking from person to person.
It’s like Hebrew stresses the weight, Greek stresses the voice.
And before anything else… God speaks. Not Moses. Not angels. Not thunder. God Himself. That alone could be a whole sermon.
Verses 2–3 — “I am the LORD your God… You shall have no other gods before Me.”
Hebrew:
אָנֹכִי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ
Anochi YHWH Eloheikha.
That word אָנֹכִי (anochi) is interesting. It’s an older, almost poetic form of “I.” It feels weightier than the more common אני (ani). Like the mountain voice says:
“I… even I… am the LORD.”
The Greek uses:
ἐγώ εἰμι κύριος ὁ Θεός σου (egō eimi Kyrios ho Theos sou)
— “I am the Lord your God.”
There’s something direct, almost intimate about “your God.” Not “the God of the world” (though He is). Not “the God of the cosmos.”
Your God.
“You shall have no other gods before Me.”
The phrase “before Me” in Hebrew is
עַל־פָּנָיַ (al-panay)
literally “upon my face.”
So basically:
“Don’t put any other spiritual thing in My face.”
It’s bold. It’s personal.
And honestly, even in our age—we still build gods. Not statues, but screens, praise, self-image, money, weird cravings for people’s approval. They sit right in God’s face sometimes.
This command feels like a call back to sanity.
Verses 4–6 — “Do not make an idol…”
Hebrew word for idol:
פֶּסֶל (pesel) — a carved or chiseled image.
Greek:
εἴδωλον (eidōlon) — where we get “idol,” but originally meant “a phantom, a shadowy image.”
It’s kinda ironic. Idols look solid, shiny, attractive. But the Greek hints they’re actually empty illusions. Like smoke pretending to be stone.
God isn’t anti-art; He’s anti-reduction.
You can’t carve Infinity into a statue.
The text says God is “a jealous God” — Hebrew
קַנָּא (qannaʾ)
meaning “protectively possessive,” not petty jealousy.
Sometimes people trip on this phrase, but honestly, if love has no jealousy, then love doesn’t care. The God of Sinai cares fiercely.
Verse 7 — “Do not take the name of the LORD in vain.”
Hebrew word vain:
שָׁוְא (shav) — emptiness, nothingness, falsehood.
The command isn’t only about swearing; it’s about using God’s name like a cheap slogan, a magical formula, a casual badge.
The Greek translates “vain” as
κενός (kenos) — empty, hollow.
Holiness isn’t about strictness. It’s about fullness. Weight. Meaning. The opposite of emptiness.
Verses 8–11 — Sabbath: “Remember the Sabbath day…”
The Hebrew word remember is
זָכוֹר (zakhor)
but it doesn’t just mean “remember mentally.”
It means “remember with action.”
Like remembering someone’s birthday by actually calling them.
The Greek uses
μνήσθητι (mnēsthēti) — remember, recall.
Sabbath is such a strange, counter-cultural thing. A weekly reminder we’re not machines. We’re souls that need stillness. The air of Mount Sinai almost feels like slow breathing here.
God rests. So we rest.
Later Jewish tradition connects Sabbath with a taste of heaven—מוֹעֵד קָדוֹשׁ (moed qadosh), a “holy appointment.” I like that idea. Holy appointment with God and your own tired heart.
Verses 12 — “Honor your father and mother…”
Hebrew:
כַּבֵּד (kabbed) — “to give weight, to make heavy.”
To honor is to treat as weighty. Valuable. Not cheap.
Greek:
τίμα (tima) — “to value, to respect.”
This is the first command tied to a promise: “that your days may be long.” Not just literal long life— though sometimes that too—but a long, full, grounded life in community and memory.
Verses 13 — “You shall not kill.”
Classic Hebrew word:
לֹא תִֿרְצָח (lo tirtsach) — “do not murder.”
The root רצח (ratsach) means intentional killing with malice.
Greek:
οὐ φονεύσεις (ou phoneuseis) — “do not murder.”
This command protects the image of God in every person. Even the annoying ones. Even the ones you disagree with. Even the ones you fear.
Life is sacred. Breath is sacred.
Verse 14 — “You shall not commit adultery.”
Hebrew:
לֹא תִֿנְאַף (lo tin'af).
Greek:
οὐ μοιχεύσεις (ou moicheuseis).
Adultery is betrayal of covenant—whether ancient marriage contracts or modern relationships. It’s tearing fabric that was meant to be woven.
The mountain air seems to get heavy here, like God is saying:
“Treat love like something that matters.”
Verse 15 — “You shall not steal.”
Hebrew:
לֹא תִֿגְנֹב (lo tignov).
Greek:
οὐ κλέψεις (ou klepseis) — where we get “kleptomaniac.”
Stealing isn’t only about possessions. It’s also stealing time, identity, credit, trust.
We all know the sting when somebody “steals” something from us. God doesn’t want His people to live in that kind of world.
Verse 16 — “Do not bear false witness.”
Hebrew:
עֵד שָׁקֶר (ed sheqer) — “a witness of falsehood.”
Greek:
ψευδομαρτυρήσεις (pseudomartyrēseis) — where we get “pseudo” and “martyr.”
Truth is the backbone of community. Lies shatter it. Especially lies that ruin someone’s reputation.
Sometimes truth hurts. But falsehood kills.
Verse 17 — “You shall not covet…”
The Hebrew word for covet:
חָמַד (chamad) — “to desire intensely, to delight in, to long for.”
It’s desire turned toxic.
Greek:
οὐκ ἐπιθυμήσεις (ouk epithymēseis) — “do not set your passion upon.”
This command is inward—not action but desire. God is after the heart, not just behavior. That feels both comforting and terrifying.
Coveting is basically the rot that grows when we think “I deserve what they have.”
God wants freedom even at that deep silent-heart level.
Verses 18–21 — The People Tremble
The scene shifts from voice to atmosphere. Thunder. Lightning. Smoke. Honestly, if you’ve ever been near a mountain storm—like really near—you know that crackling feeling in the air. Your skin tingles. Your heartbeat doesn’t feel entirely your own. Something like that seems to fill these verses.
People stand far off and say, “Moses, you talk to us. Not God, or we’ll die.”
And yeah… I get it.
The Hebrew word for “trembled” is
וַיֶּחֱרַד (vayeḥerad) — quivered, shook.
Fear and awe mixed.
Moses says,
אַל־תִּירָאוּ (al-tira'u) — “Do not fear.”
Yet he also says God wants them to fear Him in the sense of reverence.
Fear-not and fear—together. That’s actually how relationships with holy things often feel.
Verses 22–26 — The Altar Instructions
This ending section feels quieter. Like after the thunder, God gives gentle instructions.
Hebrew emphasizes simplicity:
altar of earth, uncut stones, no steps.
No fancy performance. No pride.
The Greek Septuagint repeats the same ideas. No elaborate design.
God is basically saying:
“Come to Me simply. Come honestly.”
No climbing steps, which could expose the body—symbolically, exposing pride, ambition, pretense.
Holiness is approached with humility.
Closing Reflections
When I read Exodus 20, I don’t hear cold commands. I hear a voice calling a chaotic people into something whole. Something sane. Something sacred. The world back then was wild—full of idols, bloodshed, slave-systems, betrayals. And into that mess, God carved out a new kind of community.
The Ten Words (sometimes they’re called עֲשֶׂרֶת הַדִּבְּרוֹת — Aseret HaDibrot, “the Ten Declarations”) aren’t just law; they’re identity. They say:
“You are My people. Act like beings who bear My image.”
Sometimes I wonder how the mountain smelled—probably like dust, smoke, maybe a little like hot metal or burning wood. Sometimes my mind imagines the ground trembling under my feet. And sometimes I imagine how quiet the people must have gotten right after the voice finished speaking. That breathless, almost broken quiet.
And even now, these commandments echo. Not as old relics. But as invitations.
Not to perfection… but to alignment.
Not to wooden morality… but to living relationship.
Not to fear of punishment… but to fear that is awe.
The Hebrew and Greek shades of meaning show us something: God speaks with weight (davar) and with voice (laleō). He commands from the mountain, yes, but also draws near.
Sometimes the grammar of our life is imperfect. Our obedience wavers. Our sentences of faith break off halfway. Yet still, the God of Sinai speaks into our mess, calling us to be whole.
And maybe that’s the real heart of Exodus 20.
Not rules.
Not thunder.
Not stone tablets.
But a God who speaks…
and a people learning to listen.
){kind=link}