When we say “Ten Commandments,” we think of a small moral code that applies to everyone. This is the image that many of us have had in our minds since childhood.
But if I open the Hebrew text, the scene changes: the Bible distinguishes between seven rules for all humanity (the Noahide laws) and a corpus of 613 prescriptions for Israel (the Mosaic laws). This distinction, for me, is crucial in order not to superimpose what is universal on what is internal to a specific people.
Even the “Decalogue” that the Bible indicates as the basis of the Covenant is not what we learned in catechism: it is a cultic, very practical list. In other words, it is not the ethical decalogue of our school memories, but a package of identity that defines belonging and boundaries.
In this article, I put these levels in order—without theology but with the text at hand—to understand what those passages really say and why the axis is not “love” but the order and governance of the group. My goal is simple: to let the text speak for itself and let philology, not habit, guide the interpretation.
The Noahide laws: six prohibitions and one obligation (to establish courts)
I start from the beginning, that is, from after the flood. Jewish tradition does something very simple: it sets seven minimum limits for everyone, and it does so with the dry language of prohibitions. These are essential, sparse rules, designed to ensure a basic order for all humanity.
- Six prohibitions: idolatry, blasphemy, murder, theft, illicit sexual relations, cruelty to animals (for example, the prohibition of eating parts of live animals). Here, we are not asked to “do good,” but rather to prevent the minimal evil that destroys coexistence.
- One obligation: to establish courts to judge and punish transgressors. There is therefore an idea of a structured society: the rules do not remain on paper, but require institutions to enforce them.
The only “yes” among six “no’s” is surprising: establish courts. Translated: do not rely on goodness; make the punishment system work. In the Talmud Sanhedrin, the penalty for violation was often death. In the following centuries, the rabbis softened the harshness of this system, but the original logic remains clear: order before feelings. This fact, for me, clearly clarifies the purpose of the Noachic corpus: not to educate about love, but to prevent the collapse of social order.
The programmatic absence of “love”
If I expected a list of principles inspired by “universal brotherhood,” I do not find it here. There is not a single word that refers to love or mutual aid. “Do not steal” does not say, “respect the property of others”; it simply says, do not take away what belongs to another. It is the minimum grammar required to prevent disorder. And the only positive norm—the courts—serves precisely to find and punish those who transgress. It is a realistic, almost administrative approach: limits are set and control is organized. The rest, if there is any, will come from the free initiative of men, not from a law that imposes it.
An exception that says a lot: animals
Within this coercive framework, there is a prohibition on cruelty to animals. It is a sign of minimal civilization: those men – ‘manufactured’ or ‘reshaped’ to survive – could resort to brutal practices in order to eat. Here the Elohim set a limit. But even this remains a management of behavior, not an ‘ethics of love’. It remains, however, a significant indicator: even in a code of prohibitions, there is a perceived need to curb excesses deemed incompatible with an acceptable human order.
The 613 Mosaic laws: a manual of internal government
When the scene narrows to Israel, the regulations become more dense. We are talking about 613 prescriptions: 248 in positive form (“you shall”) and 365 in negative form (“you shall not”). Here we are no longer in the realm of “general principles”: here we have the daily maintenance of a people. It is like moving from common traffic rules to the internal regulations of a barracks: the level of detail increases, the constraints increase, and the specificity grows.
- Social order: property, family, hierarchies. Coexistence is monitored at every juncture so that the group does not disintegrate.
- Cultic order: festivals, sacrifices, purity/impurity, identity differences. Cult defines who we are: it is not ‘generic spirituality’, it is political-religious identity.
- Health order: a huge part of the rules has a hygienic-sanitary function. In a world without microbiology, laws are made to prevent epidemics: diet, meat, animals, bodily fluids, quarantines, sexual relations, contacts. Here, in my opinion, empirical knowledge translated into rules emerges: prevention means managing risks with detailed prescriptions.
I am tempted to say: fortunately, I am not subject to this package. Not because it is “bad,” but because it is internal to a people, to a specific history. I do not judge it: I contextualize it. It is a code of belonging, not a manifesto for all humanity.
‘Thou shalt not kill’ in biblical criminal law
If I take ‘Thou shalt not kill’ seriously, I must also take seriously the lists of capital crimes that I find two pages later. In Exodus 21, those who kill are punished with death, but so are those who kidnap, curse, or strike their father and mother. In Leviticus 20, capital punishment applies to various forbidden sexual relations, bestiality, adultery, and certain cult violations. In Numbers, those who gather wood on the Sabbath are put to death. And in Deuteronomy 21:18-21, the stubborn and rebellious son—not a murderer, but a disobedient one—is stoned “to set an example.” .
Do you understand what this means? That “thou shalt not kill” is not the pacifist slogan we would like it to be: it means not murdering your neighbor within your community, your clan; it means avoiding intra-group crime. The death penalty remains an instrument of government. I am not saying this: the text says it. So the commandment does not abolish “legal” or ‘war’ killing: it limits private violence that corrodes group cohesion. It is a functional restriction, not a moral poetics.
“Honor your father and your mother”: family welfare
Here, Jewish tradition helps us to understand this properly. ‘Honour’ (kabbed) does not mean ‘love your parents’; it means take care of them. It means that children must support them materially so that they do not become a burden on the community. And the link with capital punishment is explicit: anyone who curses or strikes them ‘shall be put to death’ (Ex 21). That is why the commandment promises “so that your days may be long in the land”: if you do wrong, they will be shortened. It is, in effect, a decentralized social protection mechanism: the family as the first buffer, under threat of punishment, so as not to burden the group with the costs of care
The “forgotten” commandment: images and idols
The first group of rules in our catechetical Decalogue prohibits idols and images: “You shall not make for yourself an idol or any image of anything in heaven…” This is never repealed. It is curious that the Catholic tradition, which refers to the “Law,” has filled places of worship with images and statues. If I look at it philologically, without pointing any fingers, I must admit that Hebrew makes no concessions. An archaeologist of the future, digging through our remains, could easily define Catholics as idolaters. This observation, for me, is not an accusation: it is the observation of a gap between the text and the practices developed over the centuries.
Which Decalogue is truly the “basis of the Covenant”?
Here comes the point that usually takes us aback. After the breaking of the first tablets, Yahweh says to Moses: “Cut two tablets like the first ones; I will write on them the words that were on the first ones you broke… On the basis of these words, I have established a Covenant with you and with Israel.” And what words does Exodus 34 list? Not the ethical list of the catechism, but a package of cult and identity:
- No alliances with the inhabitants of the earth; destroy their altars, steles, and sacred poles. The message is clear: separation, not mixing.
- No idols of molten metal. The iconic prohibition returns, reinforced.
- Feasts (of unleavened bread, of weeks) and rest on the seventh day. The calendar as the architecture of memory and discipline.
- Every firstborn belongs to Yahweh: livestock and children; children are redeemed by payment. Belonging that is also measured in economic terms.
- First fruits: bring the best of the land to Yahweh. Agricultural production recognizes the primacy of the sovereign-cult.
- Prohibition: “You shall not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.” An identity norm which, beyond interpretation, marks a distinguishable practical boundary.
These are the Ten Words that the text links to the Covenant. This is the cultic Decalogue. It is internal to Israel and serves to mark belonging. It also explains contemporary practices: in observant Jewish homes, meat and milk are kept separate (often with two refrigerators) to eliminate any risk of contamination.
For me, reading the text literally, it is enough to follow the thread: if Exodus 34 says that these words are the basis of the Covenant, I take note that the universal ethical Decalogue is a later reworking. As noble as you like, but still later. This does not diminish the ethical value of reinterpretations: it simply puts them in their place, after the text and not in place of the text.
A not insignificant political detail
The package includes the order not to make alliances with the peoples of the Earth and to demolish their sacred places. Now, according to Deuteronomy 32, it is Elyon who distributes the nations among the Elohim and assigns Israel to Yahweh. It is curious that the same system, at another point, orders the expulsion or even extermination of those peoples who live precisely where ‘God’ himself has placed them. It is a consistency that would require, shall we say, psychological attention. I note: it is international law in the old style, not ‘theology of mercy’. In other words: the Bible photographs power dynamics, with their internal paradoxes, rather than preaching abstract consistencies.
Economics of the sacred: firstborns and first fruits
“Every firstborn is mine.” For animals, this is clear. But here there is an equation: even firstborn children belong to Yahweh. If the parents want them, they must redeem them: that is, buy them. Then there are the first fruits: the best is brought to Yahweh. All this has a very concrete economic-administrative flavor: the sovereign taxes belonging. It is a language that we understand very well even today: loyalty and resources go hand in hand; devotion has a precise accounting.
A framework of governance: because almost everything is forbidden
If I look at the whole picture, the hypothesis I have been advancing for years takes shape: I am not reading the manifesto of a “God of universal love,” but the operating manual of a group of rulers (the Elohim) who manage populations under control. It is a power regulation:
- Prohibitions to prevent disorder (sexual, cultural, social). The factors of entropy in the system are blocked in advance.
- Courts to find and punish transgressors. The law is not advice: it has operational arms.
- Much worship to mark loyalty (“Yahweh is a jealous Elohim”). Worship creates identity and loyalty.
- Health care to ensure demographic continuity. The health of the social body is a strategic priority.
- Economy: firstborns (with redemption) and first fruits. Sovereignty is reflected in resources.
- Politics: no alliances with peoples originally “assigned”; if necessary, drive them out or destroy their symbols. The border is also defended by demolishing the signs of the other.
Within this framework, the word “love” is absent from the founding packages. The goal is not “do good,” but “do not do what breaks the chain of command.” The rest—the idea of a universal ethical decalogue—is subsequent catechesis. This reading, in my opinion, resolves many apparent contradictions and restores the text’s internal consistency.
A digression on archaeology and legal history: the “common source”
Scholars note contacts between the “commandments” of Israel and other codes: Hammurabi, the Hittite code, the decree of Horemheb (a pharaoh roughly contemporary with Moses). Not because Israel copied from one of these, but because it drew on a common source of ancient law that was applied in different contexts. If I read this observation within my framework, I see a grammar of power handed down “from above” and adapted by the various Elohim to their own group. It is not proof: it is a consistent clue. It is as if we were glimpsing a shared canvas, reworked locally: the similarities are not plagiarism, they are a family of norms.
An “uncomfortable” note: images, saints, and golden calves
I remain literal in my analysis. Exodus 20 and Exodus 34 forbid idols and images (including idols made of cast metal). The Israelites are punished for the golden calf; we have filled our churches with cast metal. I am not accusing anyone: I am simply noting that the text does not change—the readings change. If one day someone were to dig through our things, we might appear to be idolaters. It is an interesting paradox for those who say they are “based on the Bible.” This discrepancy, for me, is instructive: it shows how traditions shape the text more than the text shapes traditions.
Conclusion
In the end, the question is simple: what are we reading when we read the “commandments”? A universal ethical manifesto or the operating manual of a people within a concrete history? The Hebrew text, without embellishment, points to the second path. The seven Noahide laws serve to prevent basic chaos; the 613 Mosaic laws regulate the life of Israel in every detail; and the Decalogue, which the Bible itself calls the “basis of the Covenant,” is not the ethical one from our school memories, but the cultic one from Exodus 34.
This does not devalue anything: it brings it into focus. If the Bible is a document that photographs government, identity, and control rather than “love,” then many apparent inconsistencies fall into place. “Thou shalt not kill” coexists with capital punishment because it does not speak of pacifism; “honor thy father and mother” does not impose a feeling but an economic responsibility; the rejection of idolatry is not an inner meditation, it is a clear political-religious boundary. Even the parallels with other ancient codes—Hammurabi, the Hittites, Horemheb—are no longer scandalous: they describe a grammar of power shared and applied by the people.
What use is this to us today? At least two useful things. First: read honestly. If the text says Elohim in the plural, let’s not turn it into a convenient singular; if Exodus 34 defines that list as the basis of the Covenant, let’s not replace it with another because it “sounds better.” Second: distinguish what the text describes from what traditions have built afterwards. Ethical reinterpretations can be noble and valuable, but they are reinterpretations that serve the project of universalization implemented by theology over the centuries.
The advantage of this clarity is practical: the Bible ceases to be a minefield of contradictions and becomes what it is—an archive of norms, powers, and affiliations—within which we can still find useful information for understanding how systems work: then as now. Then everyone, if they wish, can graft their own philosophy, theology, or secular choice onto this data. My task remains this: to translate literally, reconstruct the picture, and let the text speak for itself. And that is exactly what I have done here: I have let the words, not our expectations, tell us what we are talking about.
