For Thieves Like We
The Eighth Commandment is short in speech but staggering in scope. “You shall not steal” (Exodus 20:15) is a phrase so simple that a child can memorize it, yet so profound that it can unravel a civilization when ignored. Far from being a quaint prohibition for the masked burglar or the bank robber, this commandment calls to account every employer who withholds wages, every employee who pads a timecard, every student who plagiarizes, every taxpayer who cheats, and every churchgoer who withholds what belongs to God. It condemns the theft that hides in alleyways and the theft that struts through spreadsheets. It speaks into backrooms and boardrooms, legislative halls and living rooms, and—perhaps most scandalously—into sanctuaries.
This commandment does more than forbid unlawful possession. It exposes the affections of the heart. It is not merely about coins and commodities, but about worship and worth. At its root, theft is not primarily a behavioral issue but a theological crisis. It declares that God is not good enough, generous enough, or wise enough to trust. Every act of theft, no matter how small, is a quiet rebellion—a whispered accusation against the sufficiency of God.
That is why the Westminster Larger Catechism does not stop at the act of robbery. It unfolds the full panorama of violations against this commandment: unjust gain, fraudulent dealing, overreaching in transactions, manipulative bargains, extortion, stinginess, envy, wastefulness, idleness, and every greedy attempt to hoard what God has given to be stewarded. It even reaches into the domain of the anxious heart, condemning “distrustful and distracting cares in getting wealth.” This means that even our worry about provision can become a gateway drug to theft—because worry, at its core, is a form of unbelief. It is a trembling suspicion that God will fail to be who He promised to be.
To steal is not merely to reach for what is not yours—it is to claim that the Lord has not given you what you deserve. It is not only to grasp something forbidden but to charge the Giver with stinginess. In this way, the act of theft becomes a blasphemous liturgy, a false confession that the God of heaven cannot be trusted. Thus, the Eighth Commandment does not merely regulate economics; it reveals idolatry.
And once you begin to see it, theft is everywhere.
It lives in the hand that keeps the cashier’s mistake without correction, in the student’s quiet copying of answers, in the professional who sells a defective product as though it were new. It shows up in pirated movies and plagiarized sermons, in dishonest taxes and hoarded government aid, in taking credit for work you did not do and in skipping the tithe while singing songs about the faithfulness of God. But even if you have never picked a pocket or laundered a dollar, you are not necessarily innocent. Many forms of theft come without a paper trail.
Consider the way we steal time—through our chronic lateness, our long-windedness, our interruptions that serve only ourselves. Consider the way we rob joy—through a sharp tongue, a passive-aggressive silence, or a sullen glance that resents another’s blessing. Consider the theft of reputation—through half-truths, cowardly silences, or whispered gossip that tarnishes another’s name. We steal respect when we dismiss the wisdom of parents, mock the efforts of a spouse, or trample over a leader’s sacrifice with cynicism and suspicion. We steal affection when we withhold encouragement, weaponize intimacy, or ration love to manipulate. We steal forgiveness when we treat our bitterness like buried treasure, refusing to release those who have wounded us. And we rob God Himself when we withhold worship, rob the church when we withhold service, rob our neighbor when we withhold help, and rob our children when we withhold discipleship.
Theft is not always dramatic, but it is always damaging. The scandal is not merely in how much is stolen, but in how little we care. In this culture, theft is no longer a crime—it is a craft. It is rationalized as survival, justified as justice, and repackaged as reparations. Envy is praised as activism. Entitlement is marketed as empowerment. And looting is excused as equity. Our society no longer condemns theft; it catechizes us into it.
And yet, the courtroom of heaven remains untouched by political spin and cultural mood swings. It is not bribed by our intentions or impressed by our excuses. It does not take into account the popularity of our cause or the desperation of our tone. It weighs hearts. It renders verdicts. And it still says, “Guilty.”
The root of theft is not found in poverty but in unbelief. Some steal out of fear, believing that they must fend for themselves because God will not come through. Others steal out of greed, worshiping the created thing more than the Creator. Still others steal out of entitlement, believing they are owed more than what providence has supplied. But no matter the tone—whether fearfully whispered or brazenly shouted—the declaration is always the same: God is not enough for me.
So what hope is there for thieves like us?
Look to the cross.
There, we find the One who never stole, never hoarded, never distrusted His Father. Jesus Christ, who owned all things, made Himself poor for our sake. He was stripped of His dignity, His garments, and His life—crucified between two thieves. And in one of the final acts of His earthly ministry, He welcomed a dying criminal into paradise. That thief, after a lifetime of stealing, looked at the Lord he had robbed and simply asked to be remembered. And the One who had every right to condemn responded instead with grace: “Today you will be with Me in paradise.”
Heaven was opened to a thief because Christ Himself bore the guilt. The greater Thief—the Lord Jesus—stole away his sin and nailed it to the cross.
And now, because of the gospel, thieves can be transformed into stewards. The Apostle Paul writes in Ephesians 4:28, “Let him who steals steal no longer, but rather let him labor, performing with his own hands what is good, so that he will have something to share with one who has need.” The fruit of redemption is not only cessation of sin, but the cultivation of generosity. The thief does not merely stop taking—he begins giving. He works not out of obligation but out of overflow, not out of penance but out of praise.
In Adam, we reached for what was forbidden and fell. In Christ, we receive what we never earned and are raised. In Adam, we were takers by nature. In Christ, we are givers by grace.
Let us, then, confess—not only the thefts committed by our hands but also those conceived in our hearts. Let us bring before God our grumbling, our hoarding, our envy, our withholding, our discontentment, our anxiety, and our idolatry. Let us repent of what we have taken and what we have refused to give.
Because the cross is not just a payment for sin. It is a ransom for thieves. And the One who was stripped now gives without limit.
Let the discontent be made grateful. Let the stingy be made generous. Let the anxious rest. Let the guilty be washed. Let the taker become a son.
Because the root of every theft is unbelief.
But the root of every act of righteousness is this:
Christ is enough.
