“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’
But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,
so that you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven.
For he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.”
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Opening: The Great Pepperoni Panic
Not long ago, the internet nearly melted down over pizza.
Someone posted a photo online claiming that a famous pizza chain had started printing Bible verses under the cheese.
People went wild. Videos popped up on social media. One man lifted his slice and shouted, “Mine says John 3:16 in mozzarella!”
Another posted a blurry picture that looked more like a burn mark than a Beatitude.
Within hours, the rumor spread across the country. “Pizza evangelism!” people said. “Gospel in every box!”
The company finally had to issue a statement:
> “We are proud of our crust, not our calligraphy.”
There were no secret verses—just melted rumor.
That, my friends, is The False Gospel Box.
We live in a world where everything comes labeled “authentic” and “handcrafted,” but when you open it up, what’s inside doesn’t match the label.
And that’s not just true in marketing—it’s true in religion.
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The Messianic Fact Checker
When Jesus stood on the hillside and said, “You have heard that it was said…but I say to you,”
He was fact-checking the religion of His day.
The rabbis had taken God’s pure command—“Love your neighbor”—and paired it with a man-made rumor: “and hate your enemy.”
That second half never came from heaven. It came from human hurt. From tribal loyalty. From spiritual nationalism disguised as holiness.
Religion had done what it often does—it divided people into “us” and “them.”
And once we have a “them,” we always have permission to hate.
So Jesus walked into that echo chamber of tradition and said, “Let’s correct the record.”
He was heaven’s original Fact Checker.
He wasn’t arguing about toppings—He was revealing the real recipe of love.
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Religion: The Great Divider
Religion, left to itself, is the great divider.
It whispers, “You can believe like me and be accepted—or be excluded.”
It teaches us to build fences around our convictions instead of bridges from our hearts.
We bless those who agree with us, and bake the rest in the oven of judgment.
We divide over worship style, over doctrine, over who eats what and when.
We turn grace into a membership plan.
It’s what happened in Jesus’ time, and it still happens in ours.
So imagine Jesus standing among us today saying again:
> “You’ve heard it was said… but I say to you.”
He’s lifting the lid on The False Gospel Box.
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The Haystack Gospel
Now, we Adventists may not fight over pepperoni, but let’s be honest—we have our own food theology.
We take our convictions right into the fellowship hall.
We don’t divide over doctrine—we divide over haystacks.
Some start with the chips, others with the beans.
Some sprinkle the lettuce, others drown it in salsa.
And heaven forbid you mix the mild and the hot together—that’s culinary apostasy right there!
I’ll confess something:
You always put the vege cheese on the beans so it’ll melt.
That’s not a suggestion—that’s sanctification in casserole form!
And if you want to get truly holy, you crown the whole thing with guacamole and stick two tortilla chips in the top—like little tablets of stone.
The Ten Commandments on Mount Guac.
(pause)
Now listen: the problem isn’t the food. It’s the fence.
We start to believe that God only accepts people who build their haystacks like we do.
We turn divine truth into personal preference, and then weaponize it.
That’s what religion does—it makes rules out of recipes.
And Jesus, seeing that same spirit in His generation, said, “Enough. Let’s clear the menu.”
> “You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’
But I say to you, Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you.”
He’s saying, “Stop fussing about the order of ingredients and start sharing the plate.”
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The Chef’s Correction
This is where the Messiah rewrites the recipe.
The crowd expected Him to bless their exclusivity.
Instead, He reveals that the love of heaven is not a condiment—it’s the main course.
“Love your enemies.”
That’s not soft sentiment—it’s defiant goodness.
It’s refusing to let the hatred of others determine the flavor of your soul.
“Pray for those who persecute you.”
That’s not passive surrender—it’s redemptive resistance.
You can’t keep hating someone you truly pray for.
Prayer doesn’t always change the enemy—but it always changes the pray-er.
It moves your heart from courtroom to compassion.
From clenched fists to open hands.
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The Father’s Feast
Then Jesus explains why.
> “That you may be sons of your Father who is in heaven.
For He makes His sun rise on the evil and on the good,
and sends rain on the just and on the unjust.”
He points to the most ordinary sermon illustration imaginable—the weather.
Because that’s how God preaches every day.
He makes the sun rise on both gardens:
the one with missionary tomatoes and the one with moonshine melons.
He sends rain to the saints and the scoundrels alike.
God doesn’t ration the weather.
He doesn’t turn off the sunlight over bad neighborhoods.
He just gives.
That’s the scandal of grace—it falls on the undeserving.
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The Weather of Heaven
Imagine if heaven had a forecast:
> “Today: 100% chance of mercy with scattered showers of forgiveness.”
That’s how the Father operates.
And Jesus says, “When you love like that, you look like your Father.”
That’s what it means to be children of God—family resemblance.
When we love our enemies, heaven looks down and says, “That one’s got My eyes.”
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The Father’s Table
Let me tell you something about your Father’s table.
It’s not a buffet for insiders; it’s a banquet for the undeserving.
The invitation reads: “Whosoever will, let them come.”
When you arrive, you’ll notice something odd about the seating chart.
There are no separate tables for good and bad, faithful and fallen.
Just one long table that runs the length of eternity,
covered in mercy and seasoned with forgiveness.
And the One carving the roast of redemption is the same One who prayed,
> “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
That’s the taste of heaven’s love.
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Grace That Overflows
There’s a farmer story I love.
During a long drought, someone asked him what he was praying for.
He said, “Rain for the people who curse God—because if it falls on them, it’ll reach me too.”
That’s the gospel.
When God blesses your enemy, you get watered in the overflow.
So pray for them.
Love them.
Bless them.
And when you do, you’ll feel the rain of grace falling on your own dry soul.
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Application: Checking the Label
So here’s our inventory check:
If our faith builds fences, it’s not the gospel.
If our love stops at our comfort zone, it’s not the gospel.
If our kindness has conditions, it’s not the gospel.
The false gospel box says: “Protect what’s yours.”
The true gospel says: “Give what’s His.”
The false gospel says: “Love your friends.”
The true gospel says: “Love your enemies.”
The false gospel says: “Draw the line.”
The true gospel says: “Set another place at the table.”
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Story: The Missionary’s Garden
There was a missionary once on one of the islands near New Guinea.
He’d come to share the gospel, to live among the villagers, to plant both seeds and hope.
But every morning he woke up to find something missing from his garden.
A bunch of bananas.
A few yams.
A handful of beans.
The villagers weren’t hostile; they just figured his garden was community property.
He tried locking it. Guarding it. Scolding the children.
Nothing worked.
One day, after another night of missing vegetables, he tried something different.
He gathered the best of what remained—the ripest fruit, the biggest yams, the freshest greens—
and carried them to the center of the village.
He set the basket down and left a sign written in their language:
> “A gift—from my garden to yours.”
The next morning, he looked out and saw something he hadn’t seen before:
the villagers, working together in his garden—
weeding, watering, replanting.
The stealing stopped overnight.
Later someone asked a village elder what changed.
He said, “When he gave instead of taking, we understood his talk about God.”
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When We Give Instead of Guard
He didn’t preach another sermon that week.
He didn’t quote another verse.
He simply gave—and when he gave, the stealing stopped.
Maybe that’s what the world is waiting for from us—not another argument about truth, but a living demonstration of it.
They don’t need us to guard the garden; they need us to share the harvest.
Because love is the only language heaven speaks fluently.
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Closing Appeal
Maybe someone’s been taking from your garden lately.
Your peace. Your joy. Your dignity.
You’ve tried locking it, guarding it, fencing it in.
And maybe Jesus is whispering to you today:
> “Stop guarding. Start giving.”
Give kindness where it’s been stolen.
Give forgiveness where it’s been refused.
Give grace where there’s been none.
Because when we give instead of guard,
the world finally begins to understand what we’ve been trying to say all along.
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Prayer
> “Father in heaven,
teach us to love the way You love—
not in theory, but in action;
not in words, but in weather.
Let Your sun rise through us.
Let Your rain fall from our kindness.
And let the world see in us a glimpse of You—
the God who still makes His sun rise on the evil and the good,
and sends His rain on the just and the unjust.
In Jesus’ name,
Amen.”
