Not in vain: What we forgot a commandment was for

Around here, word trav­els fast when folks think a line’s been crossed.

Recently, a local mid­dle school dra­ma pro­gram per­formed a song from Legally Blonde — the bright, boun­cy open­er, “Omigod You Guys.” The kids sang. The audi­ence clapped. And then, not long after, a par­ent went before the school board to warn that some­thing dan­ger­ous had hap­pened. That stu­dents had been allowed to curse. That God’s name had been tak­en in vain. That young souls were now at risk.

I want to slow this moment down — not to shame any­one, but to tell the truth about what that com­mand­ment was actu­al­ly meant to hold.

Because like a lot of old wis­dom, it’s been flat­tened by rep­e­ti­tion and stripped of its roots.

What the com­mand­ment was real­ly saying

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain” comes from a peo­ple who under­stood words as weight-bear­ing things. In the orig­i­nal Hebrew, the com­mand­ment does not say do not say God’s name. It says do not car­ry it falsely.

To “take” a name meant to bear it, to walk around with it attached to you. And “vain” meant emp­ty, decep­tive, untrue.

A truer ren­der­ing might sound like this:

Do not car­ry the name of God in a way that is hol­low or dishonest.

This wasn’t a rule about excit­ed speech or the­atri­cal lyrics. It was a warn­ing about mis­rep­re­sen­ta­tion — about invok­ing the sacred to lend weight to things that didn’t deserve it.

A fence around power

This com­mand­ment was nev­er aimed at children.

It was aimed at kings, priests, elders, and any­one who claimed divine author­i­ty. In a world where rulers gov­erned “by God” and wars were fought “in God’s name,” this com­mand­ment act­ed like a fence along a steep ridge.

Don’t say God sent you if God didn’t. Don’t claim heaven’s bless­ing for your own hunger for con­trol. Don’t dress harm up as holiness.

It was meant to pro­tect the peo­ple from those who would use God as leverage.

How we shrunk it down

Somewhere along the way, we trad­ed a deep moral teach­ing for a shal­low speech rule. We made it about syl­la­bles instead of substance.

And that nar­row­ing has been convenient.

Because while we’ve been busy polic­ing song lyrics and play­ground lan­guage, we’ve often looked away when God’s name is used to:

• Justify cru­el­ty toward immi­grants and the poor
• Silence women and chil­dren who tell the truth about harm
• Protect insti­tu­tions instead of people
• Sanctify fear and call it faith

Those are not small mis­steps. Those are the very things this com­mand­ment was try­ing to prevent.

What’s actu­al­ly at risk here

A group of mid­dle school­ers singing a line writ­ten for a Broadway musi­cal are not claim­ing divine author­i­ty. They are not invok­ing God to con­trol any­one. They are not mis­lead­ing a soul in God’s name.

But stand­ing in a pub­lic meet­ing and declar­ing that children’s souls are in dan­ger — invok­ing spir­i­tu­al author­i­ty to influ­ence a community’s deci­sions about education—comes much clos­er to what the com­mand­ment was actu­al­ly cau­tion­ing against.

That kind of cer­tain­ty has a long his­to­ry. Appalachia knows it well. We’ve seen what hap­pens when reli­gion stops tend­ing the soul and starts patrolling joy.

Faith isn’t fragile

If faith is real, it can sur­vive a song lyric.

What it can­not sur­vive — at least not intact — is being used as a weapon. God does not need defend­ing from teenagers in a school play. What peo­ple need defend­ing from is fear mas­querad­ing as righteousness.

The com­mand­ment was nev­er about keep­ing God’s name out of our mouths. It was about keep­ing lies, cru­el­ty, and pow­er-hunger out of God’s name.

When God’s name shows up on polit­i­cal paper

This brings us to some­thing far more con­cern­ing than a Broadway lyric: the grow­ing habit of wrap­ping polit­i­cal agen­das in the lan­guage of God.

In recent months, fly­ers and mes­sag­ing con­nect­ed to the Trump admin­is­tra­tion have cir­cu­lat­ed that frame polit­i­cal action as divine­ly sanc­tioned — using Christian lan­guage, imagery, and moral cer­tain­ty to demand alle­giance and silence dis­sent. The mes­sage beneath the sur­face is famil­iar: God is on this side. To oppose it is to oppose God.

That is not faith. That is branding.

When God’s name is used to legit­imize poli­cies that harm the vul­ner­a­ble, to stir fear of neigh­bors, or to present polit­i­cal lead­ers as cho­sen or unques­tion­able, the com­mand­ment comes sharply into focus. This is pre­cise­ly what it warned against: car­ry­ing God’s name in a way that is emp­ty of truth and heavy with control.

Appalachia has seen this before. We know how eas­i­ly scrip­ture can be bent to bless what should be ques­tioned. We’ve lived through eras where author­i­ty wrapped itself in revival lan­guage and expect­ed obe­di­ence in return. The cost has always been borne by the poor, the dif­fer­ent, and the ones with­out power.

A mat­ter of dis­cern­ment, not decorum

If we are going to wor­ry about souls, this is where the con­cern belongs.

Not with chil­dren singing a line from a musi­cal, but with adults invok­ing God to demand loy­al­ty, shut down com­pas­sion, or make cru­el­ty feel right­eous. That is tak­ing the Lord’s name in vain — not casu­al­ly, but systematically.

Faith that refus­es to be ques­tioned is not strong faith. It is frag­ile faith. And faith that requires fear to func­tion has already lost its way.

Because when sacred teach­ings are pulled out of con­text and wield­ed with­out care, it isn’t the stu­dents who are endan­gered. It’s the moral soul of the com­mu­ni­ty itself.