I DID NOT grow up in a Christian family. When I was young, we went to church at most once or twice a year when visiting my grandparents, just to avoid an argument. But the whole thing, frankly, was a bit of a mystery to me. The building was old and the sanctuary smelled musty. The wooden pews were hard and uncomfortable. The sermons and hymns were lost on me. Of course, I can’t vouch for whether the preaching was any good; what did I know? Still, even at that age, I did think it strange that the pastor would stop the sermon on occasion, step to the front of the platform, and sing as if he were performing at the Met.

Then came the moment at which they passed the offering plate. Some of you reading this have probably never seen one; if not, imagine something like a wide-rimmed soup plate made of brass, with the bottom of the plate lined with red velvet. The plate would be passed down each row from person to person as it filled with dollar bills and loose change. I think my parents gave me and my sister a quarter each to drop in the plate, just for appearances. Personally, I didn’t understand why we had to do that, and would rather have kept the quarter.

Today, offering plates seem to be going the way of the dinosaur. The few churches that still use them tend to argue that it’s a tangible reminder that the financial support of the ministry is an act of worship, something that’s easily overlooked in an age of online giving and automated electronic fund transfers.

They have a point.

But for the moment, I want to direct your attention elsewhere. Imagine this scenario with me. You’re sitting in a church service, and the plate (or basket or whatever) is being passed and is coming down the row toward you. The stranger sitting next to you pulls out his wallet, getting ready to make his contribution.

But just as he takes hold of the plate, the expression on his face changes: he has the look of someone who has suddenly remembered something important he’s forgotten to do. Handing the plate to you, he stands up, leaving his wallet lying on the pew. He makes his way carefully to the aisle, trying not to step on anyone’s foot, then walks quickly up to the very front of the church, where he stands scanning the room intently, his head swiveling back and forth.

He finds the person he’s looking for and makes eye contact — which is easy to do, since everyone is already staring at him in puzzlement. Walking back down the aisle toward the second man, he motions to him to come. The other man makes a silent “Who, me?” gesture, then wordlessly gets up to join him so as not to be even more disruptive. Together, they exit the sanctuary. All eyes return to the pastor, who is fumbling to make sense of it all.

What just happened?

Here are two important pieces of the puzzle. First, the man is someone who truly and humbly loves God. And second, he had just remembered something he read a few days earlier during a morning devotional:

Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to them; then come and offer your gift. (Matt 5:23-24, NIV)

The man had been ready to engage in the weekly ritual of giving, without thinking much about what he was doing. But having read those words of Jesus, this Sunday was different. First things first, he realized. Before I make my offering, I need to be reconciled to the brother I offended.

THESE WORDS OF Jesus are from the Sermon on the Mount. He had spoken of a righteousness that goes beyond that of the scribes and Pharisees, and his first illustration invoked the commandment against murder. In a way that surely unsettled his hearers, Jesus declared that anyone who was angry enough with a brother or sister to treat them with contempt and call them a nasty name was just as guilty of sin as someone who had taken another person’s life.

Jesus didn’t make a distinction between more and less serious insults, nor between habitual rudeness and the one-off loss of control. A person doesn’t need to be a serial killer, after all, to be guilty of murder; one time is enough. His point was rather that we are all guilty of being lawbreakers; in God’s kingdom, we can’t compare ourselves to others and take satisfaction in our supposed goodness.

Knowing this, what should a faithful disciple do? One might have expected Jesus to say something like, “Control your anger.” But no. Instead of focusing the application of his teaching on our anger toward others, he focuses on what we have done to make others angry at us. Note how important a shift this is: he is no longer talking about righteousness in terms of individual piety toward God, but in terms of right relationships within the community.

The implication, then, is twofold. First, when we know or suspect that we’ve been responsible for a rupture in a relationship, it’s not enough to just pray about it, to confess it to God privately. We are to swallow our pride and take the initiative to go and reconcile. And second, this takes priority over other acts of piety that we think we’re doing to please God or impress others.

We’ve seen it already in Psalm 51 and Micah 6: God doesn’t want ritual sacrifice for its own sake. He wants people with transformed hearts who live godly lives, people who are humble and repentant, who love mercy and embody justice. Over and over in the Sermon on the Mount, and particularly in Matthew 5, Jesus teaches that people who are salt and light show what true kingdom righteousness means, not merely in relationship to God, but in relationship to others — even in relationship to those we consider to be enemies.

A word of caution. Again, Jesus is not setting up a more demanding standard of righteousness to be read as a rigid set of behavioral rules. Relationships are complicated. Angry, relationship-busting behavior is typically a two-way street — and unfortunately, there are times in which attempts to reconcile with others could put us in harm’s way.

At root, kingdom righteousness begins with an honest and humble recognition that we all stand guilty before a holy God, a recognition that leads to a desire to make things right with others when and where we can. In practice, it takes prayerful wisdom to do this well, and perhaps even the wise counsel of others.

But the point remains. True righteousness puts first things first. Religious acts of devotion toward God are meaningless if we don’t care about living rightly in relationship to others, whether in our attitudes or behaviors.

So think about it. Is there someone with whom God would want you to reconcile?