Putting the Best Construction on Everything: A Commandment That Changes How You See the World

I want to start with a confession.

When I was a kid, I hated Luther's Small Catechism. There. I said it. I know that's probably not something a Lutheran pastor is supposed to admit, but it's true. That little book represented a lot of memorization work, a lot of difficult material to wrestle with, and honestly, it just wasn't something I loved doing at the time.

But here's the thing — now that I'm an adult, and now that I've lived with the Small Catechism for decades, I can say with complete sincerity: this book is genius. It is an incredibly wonderful tool for living the Christian life and learning the Christian faith. What I once dreaded has become one of the most meaningful resources in my life and ministry. And the older I get, the more grateful I am that someone made me sit down and learn it.

Over the next few weeks, I want to share some bits of the Small Catechism with you — some of those beautiful, challenging, life-changing nuggets that Luther packed into that little book. And I'm going to start with the Eighth Commandment.

A Quick Note on Numbering

Before we dive in, I'll acknowledge upfront that there is some controversy about the right way to number the Ten Commandments. Different Christian traditions have numbered them differently over the centuries. We're going to follow the numbering that Saint Augustine suggested around 400 A.D., which means the Eighth Commandment is this:

You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

Simple enough, right? Don't lie. Don't commit perjury. Don't make up stories about people. Most of us probably hear that and think, yeah, got it, not a problem.

But Luther, being Luther, doesn't let us off that easy.

What Does This Mean?

One of the things I love about the Small Catechism is the way Luther structured it. After stating each commandment, he asks: What does this mean? And the answer he gives for the Eighth Commandment is worth reading slowly and carefully.

Luther writes that we should fear and love God so that we do not tell lies about our neighbor, betray him, slander him, or hurt his reputation. So far, that probably sounds like what we expected. Don't lie. Don't slander. Don't betray people. Those are the obvious negatives.

But then Luther does something wonderful. He doesn't stop at what we shouldn't do. He tells us what we should do:

Defend him, speak well of him, and put the best construction on everything.

That phrase — put the best construction on everything — is from the older translation I grew up with. Modern translations often render it as "explain everything in the kindest way." Both get at the same idea. But honestly? "Put the best construction on everything" has a ring to it that I find hard to shake. It makes you think. It invites you to picture yourself as a builder, constructing your understanding of another person and their actions. Are you building something true and good? Or are you building something distorted and unfair?

What Does It Actually Look Like?

Let me make this concrete, because I think it's easy to nod along to this idea in the abstract and then completely miss it in the everyday moments of our lives. Putting the best construction on everything means, at its heart, that you assume the best about people. You give them the benefit of the doubt. You build them up rather than tear them down. You don't just jump to conclusions about why someone did what they did.

Consider a few examples.

Your spouse says something short with you. Maybe they snap a little. Maybe what comes out of their mouth has a bit of an edge to it that catches you off guard. You have a choice in that moment. You can think, why is he being a jerk? I hate it when he does this. Or you can put the best construction on it. You can look at that person you love and think, that's not how they normally are. Something must be going on. They're usually wonderful and caring. Maybe I should check in and ask if something's wrong — or maybe I should just let it slide, because this isn't who they are.

Notice the difference. One response tears down. One builds up. One assumes the worst; the other assumes the best.

Someone is late for an appointment with you. The worst-case construction goes something like this: They're late because they're selfish. They don't care about my time. They can't get their act together. They have no regard for me. We've all been there, haven't we? We've all felt that slow burn building as the minutes tick by.

But what if you put the best construction on it? What if, instead, you thought: I wonder if they've had a hectic day and this was a hard one to get to. Maybe they need a moment to catch their breath before we sit down together. Suddenly, you're not a person stewing in resentment — you're a person caring about someone who might be struggling. That's a completely different posture, and it leads to a completely different conversation.

Someone criticizes you. This one's hard, maybe the hardest. When we're criticized, our defenses go up fast. The easy reaction is to write the person off: they don't understand me, they're being mean, they're just a jerk.

But what if you tried to see it differently? What if that person actually recognizes how gifted and capable you are — and they know, maybe even more than you do in that moment, that you can do better? What if, however clumsily they expressed it, they were trying to encourage you toward excellence? That doesn't mean every critic has your best interests at heart, of course. But asking the question — could there be something true and helpful here, even if it's delivered poorly? — that's what it means to put the best construction on it. It feels different to receive criticism that way. It opens you up rather than shutting you down.

What Would It Do to Your Relationships?

I want you to stop for a moment and really think about this question: what would it do to your relationships if you consistently put the best construction on the people in your life?

What would it mean to your spouse, your children, your coworkers, your friends — if they knew, with confidence, that when they came to you, you were going to think well of them? That you were going to build them up, not tear them down? That you were going to be the person in their life who always had a kind word, who gave them the benefit of the doubt, who didn't jump to assume the worst?

Think about that. In a world that is relentlessly designed — through social media, through news cycles, through the habits of our culture — to push us toward suspicion, toward outrage, toward thinking the worst of one another, what would it mean to be a person who consistently swims against that current?

I think it would be powerful. I think it would change things — in your marriage, in your family, in your workplace, in your community. When people feel genuinely loved and thought well of, it transforms them. And the consistent practice of assuming the best about others transforms you too.

The Hardest Part

Here's something I've been sitting with, and I want to share it honestly with you, because I think it gets at something important.

The hardest part of this commandment isn't the doing of it. The hardest part is what it forces us to face in ourselves when we don't do it.

When I catch myself thinking the worst of someone — when I catch myself building that dark, unfair construction of why they did what they did — what does that reveal about me? What does it say about the condition of my heart? There's something uncomfortable in that moment of self-recognition. Because when I construct a negative story about another person, I'm not just saying something about them. I'm saying something about myself — about my pride, my insecurity, my need to feel superior or justified.

That's the convicting power of this commandment. It doesn't just ask you to behave differently. It holds up a mirror.

And when you look in that mirror and see what's there — the unkind thoughts, the snap judgments, the little cruelties of your inner life that nobody else can see — you quickly realize that you need something more than a resolution to do better. You need grace.

It All Comes Back to Love

Here's the thing about the commandments — all of them, from number one to number ten, however you number them. They all come back to love.

When Jesus was asked what the greatest commandment was, in Matthew 22, He didn't hesitate. He said the greatest commandment is to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind. And the second is like it: love your neighbor as yourself. Love fulfills God's law. Love is what the commandments are really about. They're not a list of rules meant to weigh us down or make us miserable — they're a description of what a life shaped by love actually looks like.

So why would we want to love other people? Why would we want to put the best construction on our neighbors, give them the benefit of the doubt, build them up?

Because we have been loved.

We have experienced a love that is, quite literally, out of this world. God has looked upon us — with all our flaws, all our failures, all our unkind inner monologues and small cruelties — and He has loved us anyway. Not in a casual, dismissive sort of way. Not just a shrug and a "you're okay, I guess." He has loved us with a love so committed, so fierce, so transformative, that He was willing to go to the cross for us.

That's putting the best construction on us, isn't it? God didn't look at humanity in all of its brokenness and say, not worth it. He looked at us and said, I am going to make you new. I am going to pour my love into you, and it's going to transform your life. That's grace. That's the gospel.

And when we deal with other people — our spouses who snap at us, our coworkers who are late, our critics who sometimes have a point — we can love them because they are loved. God loves them too. The cross tells us that. Every person we encounter is someone for whom Christ died. That changes the way we see them.

Empowered by the Spirit

I want to be clear about something, because I think it's important. We are not simply being asked to white-knuckle our way through a resolution to think more kindly about people. That's not how this works.

The Christian life isn't primarily about trying harder. It's about being transformed — being given a new life, empowered by the Holy Spirit, that actually changes the desires of our hearts. When we are rooted in the love of God, when we return again and again to the grace we've received, something shifts in us. We begin to genuinely want to love others. We begin to find it more natural to extend grace, because we have received so much of it ourselves.

That doesn't mean it's easy. Old habits are stubborn. The pull toward suspicion and the worst-case construction is strong, especially in a culture that rewards outrage and punishes generosity of spirit. But we have help. We have the Spirit working in us, shaping us, and pointing us back to the love we've received every time we fall short.

And when we fall short — when we catch ourselves tearing someone down in our hearts, when we've said something unkind, when we've assumed the worst and acted on it — we have forgiveness. That's what the cross is about. We don't have to carry the weight of those failures. We can confess them and receive the grace that is freely given to us.

A Daily Practice

So here's my encouragement as you go about your week. Pay attention to the moments when you feel that pull toward the worst construction. Notice when you're ready to write someone off, assume the worst, or build a dark story about why they did what they did.

And in that moment, ask yourself:

• What's the best possible explanation for what just happened?
• What might this person be going through that I can't see?
• How would I want someone to think about me if I had done the same thing?
• What does love require of me right now?

You won't always get it right. Neither will I. But the practice itself — the willingness to pause and ask those questions — is the beginning of something. It's the beginning of a life shaped by grace, extended outward toward the people around you.

Luther's Small Catechism is a remarkable document. It's a summary of the Christian faith that manages to be both doctrinal and deeply pastoral at the same time. And this little phrase tucked inside the explanation of the Eighth Commandment — put the best construction on everything — might be one of its most quietly revolutionary ideas.

It's not just advice for being a nicer person. It's a description of what love looks like in the ordinary moments of an ordinary day. It's an invitation to reflect, in our small human way, the grace of a God who has put the best construction on us — and, in Christ, has made us new.

God bless you this week. I'll see you next time.

— Pastor Eric Tritten, Glory Days Lutheran Church, Hudson, Ohio