I had the honor of preaching at my ordination service.

“Hear, O Israel!” – this is how the greatest commandment begins. Faith means listening: to God, to other people, and to one’s own heart. In my ordination sermon at Basel Minster, I speak about why love of God cannot be thought of without love of neighbor and love of self – and how the words of Jesus and Rabbi Hillel lie surprisingly close to one another.

The responses to my sermon were overwhelming, positive, and deeply moving, and I myself am grateful and touched by them. So I am sharing the sermon with you here, together with the sermon text.

A scribe had come forward and was listening to the discussion.
When he saw how well Jesus had answered the Sadducees, he asked him:
“Which commandment is the greatest of all?”
Jesus answered:
“The most important one is this: Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone!
You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.
The second is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.
There is no other commandment greater than these.”
Then the scribe said to him:
“You are right, Teacher; you have truly said that he is one, and besides him there is no other.
And to love him with all the heart, and with all the understanding, and with all the strength, and to love one’s neighbor as oneself—this is much more important than all whole burnt offerings and sacrifices.”
When Jesus saw that he answered wisely, he said to him:
“You are not far from the kingdom of God.”
(Mark 12:28–34)

Dear friends,
Hello and good day, bonjour, hello, здравствуйте.
Or, as it is said in Hebrew:

Shalom – which is not only a greeting.
Shalom – peace, wholeness, healing.
Not just the absence of war,
but that rare moment
when something inside us comes to rest.

Sometimes we feel it, that shalom. Just briefly.
Between two breaths.
Or in the middle of chaos—when someone looks into our eyes,
and suddenly we know:
I am seen. I am held.

Today’s text begins with a question.
And I must confess:
I have a weakness for questions.
Not because I have all the answers—quite the opposite.
But because questions open doors.
A good question can break open a space
where suddenly something happens:
new thinking,
new feeling,
a different way of seeing.

The question asked today is no small one.
“What is the greatest commandment?”

Theologically, it sounds like an exam question.
But honestly: it is a heart question.

What matters?
What remains when everything shakes?
What holds us—when we no longer know what to hold on to?

I. Hear, O Israel

Jesus answers with the first words of the Shema Yisrael,
the central confession of Judaism.
Not his invention.
Not a radical update.
But a return to the heart of the Torah.

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad.
Hear, O Israel: The Eternal is our God, the Eternal is One. (Deut 6:4)

Every morning.
Every evening.
For generations.

Jesus places himself into this tradition.
He does not repeat a formula—he calls to remember.
To hear again.

For hearing is the beginning of everything.
Not seeing.
Not explaining.
Not judging.
But hearing.

I often wonder: how do we actually hear?
We consume:
news, voices, podcasts, debates.
But do we still truly listen?

To the other?
To our own hearts?
To that quiet call that sometimes lingers between our thoughts?

The Talmud says the ear is open because it has no lid.
Perhaps so that we never stop listening.
Not even when it is uncomfortable.

II. With all that you are

Jesus continues—quoting again from the Torah:
“You shall love the Eternal, your God,
with all your heart,
with all your soul,
with all your mind, and with all your strength.”

With everything.
Not halfway.
Not selectively.
Not only in beautiful moments,
not only in worship.

This love is not a feeling.
It is a posture.
A bond.
A trust
that chooses itself anew, again and again.
Even—against appearances.

The rabbis ask in the Midrash:
How can love be commanded?
The answer:
Because it is not about romance—
but about orientation.

I orient myself toward the Eternal,
toward what holds,
toward what is greater than me.
I say: You may hold me,
even when I cannot hold myself.

III. And your neighbor—as yourself

And Jesus does not stop there.
He continues—quoting from Leviticus 19:
“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

This too is Torah.
And it is not written in a pious prayer book,
but in the middle of a chapter about daily life:
the right of the poor to glean,
fairness in trade,
justice in court,
respect for the stranger.

God says:
You do not love me in great words,
but in small deeds.
In how you treat the one before you.

Faith shows itself not in sacrifice—
but in how you meet another human being.

But in between stands someone else:
yourself.

“As yourself.”
And that, I believe, is sometimes the hardest part.

To look at myself with kindness.
Not to measure myself constantly,
to compare,
to devalue.
Not to overlook myself.

IV. Hillel on one foot

There is this famous rabbinic story.
A man comes to Hillel—
one of the greatest teachers of his time—
and says:
“Summarize the whole Torah for me while I stand on one foot.”

It was not a friendly question.
More a mocking one.

But Hillel answered—
calmly, patiently:
“What is hateful to you,
do not do to your neighbor.
That is the whole Torah.
The rest is commentary.
Go and learn.”

I love that line.
It is so simple,
you could stumble over it.
And so deep,
you could live inside it.

“The rest is commentary.”

That does not mean the rest is unimportant.
But:
the heart of it all is relationship.
Everything else—laws, commandments, rituals—
is its unfolding.

When I am compassionate,
I begin to believe.
When I do not ignore another’s pain,
I begin to see.
When I stop making myself the center of the world—
something holy begins.

V. Not far

And then comes this strange sentence at the end.
Jesus says to the questioner:
“You are not far from the kingdom of God.”

Not far—
that is not “there.”
But it is also not “away.”
It is: on the way.

And perhaps that is the most beautiful thing
one can say to a person.

Not perfect.
Not finished.
But open.

Not arrived.
But on the road.

Not understanding everything.
But ready to listen.

And maybe that is all it takes:
Ready to listen.
Open to love.
Brave enough to walk.

VI. And what remains?

If you take something with you today—
perhaps this:
Shema Yisrael—Hear.

For love does not begin with doing,
but with listening.

Whoever listens, can love.
Whoever loves, changes the world—
perhaps only a little.
But enough
to make God’s presence felt within it.

And sometimes it begins very small:
An ear that truly listens.
A heart that stays soft,
even when tired.
A hand that cannot do much—
but does not let go.

To love God and the neighbor—
this is no acrobatic double jump.
It is more like a stretch between patience and longing.
Between weariness and courage.
Between “I can’t anymore”
and “I’ll try again anyway.”

And sometimes it is simply that quiet nevertheless:
Nevertheless.
Despite everything.
Despite the questions.
Despite this world that is often loud, harsh, too much.

Conclusion

Perhaps faith is nothing other than this:
to listen.
to love.
to set out.

With a doubt.
With a smile.
With a glimmer of hope.

And perhaps God then also says to you:
“You are not far.”

Not far—that is enough.
It is not the end.
But perhaps a good beginning.

Amen.