“My son, if sinners entice you, do not consent” (v. 10). The father’s voice tightens here. The tenderness of instruction remains, but the tone carries urgency. Wisdom recognizes that danger often approaches wearing familiarity. Sin rarely announces itself as open rebellion; it often presents itself as kind invitation. It says, “Come with us” (v. 11a). It promises belonging, excitement, power, or profit. Solomon unmasks the invitation and shows what lies beneath it: a shared descent into ruin. The language grows stark—“ ‘Let us lie in wait to shed blood’” (v. 11b)—because the end of sin, however refined its disguise, is always violence. Sometimes that violence is overt; sometimes it is cloaked in systems of exploitation, in the destruction of the vulnerable, in the quiet erasure of dignity through slander, coercion, or contempt. Sin seeks accomplices. It thrives in numbers. It prefers the chorus to the solitary voice, for guilt feels lighter when it’s shared.
The father doesn’t negotiate with temptation; he draws a boundary. “My son, do not walk in the way with them, keep your foot from their path” (v. 15). This isn’t fear-mongering but clarity. What masquerades as freedom steadily narrows until it becomes confinement. What begins as excitement calcifies into habit, and habit hardens into captivity. Solomon exposes the irony with surgical precision: Those who imagine themselves as predators are, in truth, stalking their own demise. “But they lie in wait for their own blood, they lurk secretly for their own lives” (v. 18). Sin reverses the hunter and the hunted. The net is visible, yet the heart rushes forward anyway. Desire clouds judgement. Greed dulls perception. And autonomy, promised as liberation, quietly consumes its host.
The Church is often accused of being overly cautious, out of step with modern sensibilities, or obsessed with restraint. But the father’s warning isn’t driven by control; it is born of care. He doesn’t argue against pleasure as such; he warns against self-destruction. He understands what the enticement conceals: “So are the ways of everyone who is greedy for gain; it takes away the life of its owners” (v. 19). Greed doesn’t merely distort priorities; it corrodes the soul. It trains the heart to view others as means rather than neighbors—as commodities rather than gifts. God’s wisdom refuses such a vision of humanity. Life isn’t seized; it’s received. Neither is it exploited, but protected. It flows from the Lord and Giver of life who does not entice but gives.
The Gospel speaks directly into this passage. Christ enters a world saturated with violence and greed, and He doesn’t join the chorus. He walks a different road—one marked by obedience, sacrifice, and mercy, that is, the cross. Where sinners shed blood to gain power, He shed His own to give life. Where greed hoards, He gives freely and recklessly (cf. Matthew 13:3-9, 18-23). His cross stands as both judgement and rescue: judgement upon every path that destroys, and rescue for those already entangled. Therefore, when temptation whispers, answer with the Word (cf. Matthew 4:1-11). When the invitation promises gain at the cost of another’s life, remember where that road ends. Fix your eyes on Jesus, whose footsteps trace the narrow way that leads not to loss but to life. His blood doesn’t cry out for vengeance; it speaks forgiveness. Jesus didn’t pray, “Father, avenge Me.” Amazingly, He prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” (Luke 23:34).
The Lutheran Column 