As Judges ends, we see perhaps the worst story in all the Bible. I have often been told that in ancient days, Rabbis would not allow youths to read the Song of Solomon until they were “of age” because of the themes. I believe the story of the Levite’s concubine is much the same. It’s a story of sexual assault, of evil, of abuse, of just the very worst of humanity. Reinhold Niebuhr once wrote that the doctrine of original sin is “the only empirically verifiable doctrine of the Christian faith.” All you have to do is look around, and you can see it. Judges proves that point to us. And what starts all of this? Everyone does what is right in their own eyes.

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Good morning. It’s good to be with you today as we wrap up the book of Judges.

Yesterday, we talked about how the end of Judges serves as a kind of commentary on where the people of Israel found themselves. The repeated refrain—”Everyone did what was right in their own eyes”—shows us the dangerous result of unchecked individualism. That phrase sets the tone for the complete disintegration we’re about to see. Yesterday, we saw how doing what was right in their own eyes led to the collapse of Israel’s religious life. The people began bending their faith to suit themselves, asking God to bless their idols, and even employing a Levite to lead them in pagan worship—all while claiming that God would bless it.

Today, we see the disintegration of both moral life and the unity of the people. I want to take a big-picture view of the closing chapters—Judges 19 through 21—because they’re meant to be read as a whole. Context matters, and when you see these events together, the point becomes painfully clear. This part of Judges doesn’t give us models to emulate—it gives us a warning. Very little that happens in these chapters should be copied by us. Even the prayers we read feel twisted. One commentary in the Wesley Study Bible said it well—God is basically letting the people reap what they’ve sown. They’ve gone so far from Him.

In chapter 19, there’s another Levite—again from Ephraim—who takes a concubine, essentially a second wife. As the story unfolds, he travels and ends up staying with a host in Gibeah, a Benjamite town. He’s shown hospitality at first, but later that night, the men of the town come out demanding to sexually assault his guest. It’s grotesque and echoes the story of Sodom. Instead of himself, the Levite gives them his concubine, and she is abused all night. The text describes her collapsing at the doorstep, reaching toward the threshold—almost as if she’s reaching for salvation in her last breath.

It’s brutal. It’s graphic. And what makes it worse is the Levite’s callous response. He takes her body, cuts it into twelve pieces, and sends a piece to each of the twelve tribes of Israel. It’s one of the most grotesque and horrifying acts in the entire Bible—done by a priest, no less. The tribes of Israel respond by going to war against Benjamin, and they nearly wipe the tribe out. Only at the end, in chapter 21, do they stop short of total destruction. Incidentally, the first king of Israel, Saul, will come from this shattered tribe of Benjamin.

This is where doing what was right in their own eyes has led them. Yesterday, they bent religion to serve their own ends. Today, they’ve lost all sense of human decency and moral responsibility. One quote from Reinhold Niebuhr comes to mind. He once said that the doctrine of original sin is the only empirically provable doctrine of the Christian faith. In other words, all you have to do is look around to see that sin is real—brokenness is real. Evil is real. It’s not abstract.

But here’s where sin grows deep roots: when we lose the bonds of human fellowship. When we live only for ourselves—when we no longer care about the needs, the hurts, or the dignity of others—that’s when the fabric of society begins to unravel. At the heart of nearly every sin is pride. At the root of moral decay is selfishness.

If I stop caring about you—your pain, your joy, your needs—then what happens to you doesn’t matter to me. And if you’re of no value to me, then you become disposable. That’s how the Levite could do what he did. And that’s how a community could fall apart.

This is why I often poke fun at Facebook and the outrage we see online. But beyond the humor is a real warning: How do we speak about those we disagree with? Do we view people who oppose us politically as fully human? What kind of language do we use to describe people who think differently? If we ever begin to see our fellow human beings as less than human, as subhuman, then we are one step closer to the kind of moral darkness we see at the end of Judges.

Friends, we are called to more. As Christians, we are called to love, to sacrifice, to carry each other’s burdens. We are called to esteem others—even those who are far from God—as people made in the image of God. We are not meant to do what is right in our own eyes, but to seek what is right in God’s eyes. That means laying down our rights for one another, for the sake of love.

The people in Judges forgot that. That’s why this book—especially its ending—is a cautionary tale for us today. In an age of individualism and internet-fueled self-importance, it’s easy to drift into the same trap: “I’ll do what’s right for me.” But when we forget God, and we stop loving our neighbors, we build the bed of our own destruction.

It’s a hard passage. But it’s one we need to hear. Because it reminds us where unchecked sin leads—not just in individuals, but in communities.

Thanks for being with us today. Tomorrow, we’ll turn to a psalm as we shift gears a little bit before picking up a New Testament book next week. I’d love to hear your thoughts on where we should go next.

Have a great day. See you then.