When Jesus spoke of oaths
I think he was speaking
to that part of us
that likes to stand near truth
without stepping inside it,
that part that says
by heaven,
by earth,
by anything bright enough
to make our words look holy,
while the heart
keeps one hand
on the latch.
He had already said
he came not to abolish
but to fulfil,
and the old world
was still humming in the room—
Moses,
Elijah,
Law and Prophets
like weathered pillars
leaning toward him,
as if all that had been written
had been waiting
for a face,
a voice,
a body.
People ask about prawns,
about old boundaries,
about what remains.
But God is not fickle.
It is the story
that has moved.
What was once written on stone
has come looking
for the human heart.
Jeremiah knew that.
The covenant
would have to go deeper
than tablets,
deeper than ritual,
deeper than the clean edge
of obedience.
It would have to enter
the stubborn rooms,
the locked cupboards,
the private negotiations
we call wisdom.
So let your yes be yes.
Let your no be no.
No embroidery.
No incense.
No gilded handle
on a hollow door.
Then revenge,
that old family heirloom
passed down warm from hand to hand,
that quick red thought
that says
hurt must be answered
with hurt,
and a little more,
so they remember.
This is how the world
goes blind.
This is how its mouth
fills with broken teeth.
And Jesus says
do not answer
from that kingdom.
Take the second mile.
Hand over the cloak.
Open your fist.
Pray for the enemy.
Not because evil is light.
Not because wounds are brief.
Not because suffering
can be solved by neat sentences.
But because vengeance
cannot carry
the weight of God’s future.
Still, the struggle remains.
The kingdom is in us
like a new song,
but we sing it
with torn lungs,
old habits,
damaged instruments.
We go back sometimes
to the cell,
sit down in the dark,
lift the old chain
as though it still belongs to us.
And then that impossible line: Be perfect.
Not polished.
Not stainless.
Not a life
without fracture.
But whole.
Ripened.
Gathered.
A soul
grown fully toward God
the way a tree
leans toward light.
I think of the student
of The Generation without a Dream,
troubled less by harassment
than by corruption,
by the inward rot,
the way a people
can forget
what goodness is for.
That feels close
to what Jesus is naming.
Not only the wound,
but the deeper bend beneath it.
Not only the act,
but the heart
that keeps rehearsing distance
from God.
So we keep going,
poor in spirit,
hungry still,
our failures following us
like shadows at dusk,
and yet the North Star
holds.
Speak plainly.
Drop the game.
Loosen your grip.
Go further than required.
Give.
Bless.
Pray.
Live now
from the kingdom
that is coming.
And ask, each day,
for the hard places in you
to be made soft enough
for heaven.
Original message by Lou Fortier, The Bridge Church Macquarie Park NSW
1 March 2026
The Afterword 
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