We find ourselves standing beside the shepherd Amos, a herdsman from Tekoa, called by Yahweh to leave his flocks and prophesy to the northern kingdom of Israel in the days of Jeroboam II. Though not a professional prophet, Amos carried a word that pierced the complacency of a nation enjoying material abundance while trampling the poor and perverting justice. His message sweeps us into the marketplaces, the courts, and the high places, confronting us with the cost of neglecting our neighbors and inviting us into the kind of justice and righteousness that flows directly from God’s heart.
Amos begins by announcing the day of the Lord against Israel’s oppressors—those who crush the needy and those who commit adultery in high places. His stark oracles move from surrounding nations—Judah, Philistia, Tyre, Edom, Ammon, Moab—to Israel itself, showing that God holds all nations accountable for violence and injustice. In our day, when headlines teem with stories of economic exploitation or human trafficking, Amos reminds us that no power structure is exempt from divine scrutiny. When Jesus declared that the poor would always be with us (Matthew 26:11), He did not excuse injustice but highlighted our ongoing responsibility to love and serve the vulnerable.
In Samaria’s opulent feasts and sumptuous homes we see the same dynamic Amos observed: “They trample the head of the poor into the dust of the ground, and push the afflicted out of the way” (Amos 2:7). Wine flows freely at banquets, but in the alleyways children starve. The prophet’s words burn with indignation: “I hate, I despise your feast days…though you offer me burnt offerings and grain offerings, I will take no delight in them” (Amos 5:21–22). Ritual without righteousness is an empty shell. When Jesus lamented over Pharisees who “tithe mint, dill, and cumin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith” (Matthew 23:23), He echoed Amos’ call: true worship flows into concrete acts of neighbor-love—feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, protecting orphans and widows.
Amos does not spare the religious center at Bethel. He proclaims that the very altar will be broken and the temple roof torn down (Amos 3:14). This upheaval signals that worship must be rooted in obedience, not in privileged access to holy sites. In the New Testament, Jesus declares Himself the true temple: “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up” (John 2:19). Our worship, then, is not confined to buildings but embodied in our lives—when we heal divisions, comfort the grieving, and stand for justice in public squares.
Early in his ministry Amos issues a series of “for three transgressions… and for four” judgments, each targeting specific sins of arrogance, violence, and corruption. For Tyre’s selling of the whole nation of Judah for the price of a pair of sandals (Amos 1:9), for Edom’s pursuit of brother with the sword (Amos 1:11), and for social exploitation in Israel (Amos 2:6–7), God’s word brings clarity: sin has real victims. When Paul exhorts the church to “remember the poor” (Galatians 2:10-11), he enshrines the principle that neighbor-love requires active care for those whom sin and systems have harmed.
Amos’ demand for justice reaches its crescendo in his famous vision of the altar’s plumb line. God says, “I will set a plumb line in the midst of my people Israel; I will not pass by them anymore” (Amos 7:8). A plumb line tests whether a wall is straight; Israel’s deeds would be measured against God’s perfect standard. In our own lives, we need such markers—Scripture’s ethics, community accountability, the Spirit’s conviction—to gauge whether our neighborhoods, businesses, and governments align with God’s justice. Jesus applies this in the Sermon on the Mount when He calls us to be salt and light (Matthew 5:13–16): distinctives that preserve what is good and expose corruption.
Despite Amos’ fierce warnings, he conveys a heart of hope. He prophesies that after exile God will restore the fallen booth of David, raise up its ruins, and rebuild it as in the days of old (Amos 9:11–12). Peter quotes this promise at the Jerusalem council, declaring that Gentiles too are coheirs in Christ’s kingdom (Acts 15:16–17). In that vision we glimpse neighbor-love on a global scale, where barriers of ethnicity and class give way to a family united under God. Loving our neighbors today means crossing those barriers—welcoming refugees, blessing international students, and building relationships that reflect the coming unity of all peoples.
Amos’ final lament over Israel’s shattered altars and empty grain bins turns again to the invitation of return: “Seek me and live; but do not seek Bethel, nor enter into Gilgal…but seek the Lord, and live” (Amos 5:4–6). He urges a spiritual pursuit that transforms daily conduct: “Hate evil, and love good, and establish justice in the gate; it may be that the Lord God of hosts will be gracious to the remnant of Joseph” (Amos 5:15). This summons to hate evil and love good reminds us that neighbor-love carries both positive and negative tasks: dismantling oppression and building community care. When Micah affirms, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good…to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8), he resonates with Amos’ call to communal transformation.
Throughout the book, Amos displays the power of prophetic friendship. As an outsider—neither priest nor court prophet—he risked ridicule and persecution to speak God’s truth. His courage calls us to love our neighbors by refusing to stay silent in the face of injustice: writers exposing corruption, activists advocating for housing rights, neighbors confronting racist policies. When Jesus commends the Good Samaritan for crossing cultural boundaries to aid a beaten stranger (Luke 10:33), He elevates such acts as the epitome of neighbor-love.
Amos’ poetic language stirs our imagination: the basket of summer fruit at the end of Israel’s harvest, ripe for destruction (Amos 8:1–2); the locust and the mildew that devour before the spring grain (Amos 4:9). These images remind us that ecological care is neighbor-love. When damage to creation brings floods, fires, or crop failure, our response must be solidarity: reducing carbon footprints, supporting sustainable agriculture, and assisting communities affected by climate disasters.
In his deft weaving of judgment and promise, Amos portrays God not as a distant deity but as a neighbor who sees every injustice and calls us into partnership for repair. His refrain, “For the Lord God does nothing without revealing his purpose to his servants the prophets” (Amos 3:7), assures us that God invites us into His work. When Jesus proclaims, “I have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly” (John 10:10), He fulfills Amos’ vision of communities transformed by divine compassion.
As Amos concludes, we hear the echo of an open door: “In that day I will raise the booth of David…the plowman shall overtake the reaper, and the treader of grapes him who sows the seed” (Amos 9:11–13). No longer will scarcity drive neighbor against neighbor; instead, abundance will overflow, and labor will yield joy. Our task is to partner with God in bringing this future nearer: supporting fair wages so that farmworkers reap a decent living, ensuring that smallholder farmers have access to markets, and reforming systems that choke off the poor.
In drawing near to Amos’s prophetic call, we discover that neighbor-love demands more than warm feelings—it requires prophetic courage, solidarity with the oppressed, communal repentance, and active engagement in both dismantling evil and building justice. It compels us to fast and weep with those who suffer, pray for our leaders, advocate in the courts, and plant seeds of kindness that yield a hundredfold. In doing so, we follow Jesus’ way of loving our neighbors as ourselves—bringing the day of the Lord not as a day of darkness alone, but as a dawn of restored fellowship, righteousness, and joy for all the earth.