Hosea - Loving The Unloved

Reader's Version

Hosea: Loving The Unloved 

Sermon by Gene Simco 

Reader’s Version 

I once heard a story about a man who was telling his friend about an argument he’d had with his wife. He said, “Oh, I hate it. Every time we argue, she gets historical.” His friend replied, “You mean hysterical?” “No,” the man insisted. “I mean historical. Every time we argue, she drags up everything from the past and holds it against me.” 

That’s funny, but it also sets the tone for where we are going today. Because if we’re honest, history is often the problem in our relationships with God. We keep dragging up the past—our failures, our betrayals, our wanderings—and we wonder if God can possibly forgive us again. The book of Hosea shows us that He can, and that He does. 

We continue now in our Alpha and Omega series, moving through the prophetic books. If you’re a beginner with the Old Testament, here’s the roadmap: first come the Torah—the five books of Moses. Then the History Books—from Joshua through Esther. After that come the Poetic Books, like Psalms and Proverbs. And finally, the Prophetic Books, where we are today. 

The prophets usually appear in the same timeline as the events recorded in 2 Kings and 2 Chronicles. We’ve already studied prophets like Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel. They ministered before, during, and after the fall of Judah. But remember, long before Judah fell, the kingdom itself had already split. Solomon’s son Rehoboam’s foolishness and sin tore the nation in two—Israel in the north and Judah in the south. 

The northern kingdom of Israel fell first, conquered by the Assyrian Empire. That’s where we find ourselves with Hosea. 

Last week, we looked at Daniel—a prophet ministering after the exile of Judah. But now we rewind back in time to the north, to Israel. Here we meet the prophet Hosea. 

The name Hosea means “salvation.” It shares the same Hebrew root as Joshua (Yehoshua) and Jesus (Iēsous in Greek). Hosea prophesied in the northern kingdom, and God gave him a shocking command: to marry an unfaithful woman. His entire marriage became a living parable of Israel’s spiritual adultery. 

Hosea prophesied during the reigns of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah in Judah, and during the reign of Jeroboam II in Israel—placing him in the mid-700s BC. This means Hosea was a contemporary of Isaiah, Amos, and Micah. 

The political setting is important. Under Jeroboam II, the north experienced outward prosperity. But under the surface, they were rotting spiritually. When Jeroboam died, the nation collapsed into chaos—assassinations, instability, and rapid decline. Hosea lived long enough to see Samaria fall to Assyria in 722 BC, during the reign of King Hoshea (not to be confused with Hosea the prophet). 

That’s why his prophecy runs in parallel with 2 Kings 14–17. Hosea stands as the last prophet to the northern kingdom before exile. And his personal heartbreak—marrying and redeeming Gomer—becomes the mirror of God’s own heartbreak with Israel, a people who kept chasing after other lovers. 

Timeline Note: 
Hosea prophesied in the northern kingdom of Israel during the reign of Jeroboam II and on through the nation’s collapse. While Judah had kings like Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah, Hosea was preaching to Israel. Under Jeroboam II, the north prospered outwardly, but inside it was spiritually rotten. After Jeroboam’s death, Israel plunged into chaos—assassinations, instability, and idolatry. Hosea lived long enough to see the fall of Samaria to Assyria in 722 BC during the reign of Israel’s last king, Hoshea (2 Kings 17). His ministry overlaps prophets like Amos, Isaiah, and Micah, and his words run parallel with the history in 2 Kings 14–17. 

Hosea’s Movements 

In the first movement, chapters 1–3, Hosea’s life becomes the sermon. God commands him to marry Gomer, a woman who will not remain faithful. Hosea’s marriage becomes a living mirror for Israel, so they can see themselves in her. Their children’s names preach judgment: Jezreel means bloodshed; Lo-Ruhamah means “Not Loved”; and Lo-Ammi means “Not My People.” Each name marks Israel’s broken covenant. 

When Gomer runs off, Hosea doesn’t abandon her. He buys her back — paying fifteen pieces of silver and about five bushels of barley and a measure of wine (Hosea 3:2). That’s not romantic—it’s humiliating. His wife had fallen so low she had to be purchased like a slave. Yet Hosea’s act becomes a scandalous picture of a God who refuses to quit on His people. 

This isn’t the first time God used His prophets as living object lessons. Isaiah had to walk around naked for three years (Isaiah 20:2–4). Ezekiel lay on his side for months and ate bread baked over dung (Ezekiel 4). These humiliating acts weren’t random — they were sermons in flesh and blood. But Hosea’s sign-act may be the most painful of all, because it involved marriage and betrayal. Few things strike as deeply as unfaithfulness in a covenant of love. Hosea shows us that Israel had become a prostitute, and God asked His prophet to live it out before the nation. It raises the question for today’s church culture, where the word “prophet” gets thrown around so casually: Do you really want to be a prophet? 

Key verses set the stage. In Hosea 1:6 we read: “And the Lord said, ‘Name your daughter Lo-ruhamah—‘Not Loved’—for I will no longer show love to the people of Israel or forgive them.’” And then in Hosea 1:9: “Then the Lord said, ‘Name him Lo-ammi—‘Not My People’—for Israel is not my people, and I am not their God.’” 

This is not God’s eternal nature being unloving. Rather, it is God declaring judgment in covenant terms. Israel’s unfaithfulness placed them in the position of being unloved, cut off, and “not His people.” But here’s the kicker: the whole book drives toward the reversal of those names. Hosea 2:23 says: “At that time I will plant a crop of Israelites and raise them for myself. I will show love to those I called ‘Not Loved.’ And to those I called ‘Not My People,’ I will say, ‘Now you are my people.’ And they will reply, ‘You are our God!’” 

Paul and Peter both latch onto this. Paul quotes Hosea in Romans 9:25–26, applying it to the Gentiles: “Those who were not my people, I will now call my people. And I will love those I did not love before.” Peter echoes the same in 1 Peter 2:10: “Once you had no identity as a people; now you are God’s people. Once you received no mercy; now you have received God’s mercy.” The covenant reversal in Hosea explodes in Christ to include not just Israel, but the nations. 

Then comes Hosea 3:1: “Then the Lord said to me, ‘Go and love your wife again, even though she commits adultery with another lover. This will illustrate that the Lord still loves Israel, even though the people have turned to other gods and love to worship them.’” 

Shape 

In the second movement, chapters 4–10, the prophecy shifts into a courtroom drama. God lays out the charges against Israel: there is no truth, no mercy, no knowledge of God in the land. The priests are corrupt, the people chase idols, and the nation puts its trust in politics instead of covenant loyalty. The verdict is clear: judgment is coming. Assyria will be the rod in God’s hand. 

Yet even in His anger, God’s words drip with grief. His people are destroying themselves, and He mourns their stubborn rebellion. Hosea 4:1 thunders: “Hear the word of the Lord, O people of Israel! The Lord has brought charges against you, saying: ‘There is no faithfulness, no kindness, no knowledge of God in your land.’” The charges sound eerily familiar, echoing our own times, when idolatry and corruption run just beneath a surface of prosperity. 

Finally, in chapters 11–14, Hosea closes with the Father’s love and a call to repent. God no longer speaks as prosecutor, but as a grieving Father. “I led them with cords of kindness, with bands of love. But they refused to return” (Hosea 11:4). His heart breaks like the parent of a prodigal child. 

Though His people have cheated, God cannot stop loving them. He promises healing, restoration, and a new future: “Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God, for your sins have brought you down. Bring your confessions, and return to the Lord. Say to him, ‘Forgive all our sins and graciously receive us, so that we may offer you our praises’” (Hosea 14:1–2). 

Hosea’s message doesn’t end in despair but in hope: forgiveness stronger than betrayal, love stronger than sin. The story of Hosea is the story of our wandering hearts. We sell ourselves to worthless loves and call it freedom, yet our faithful God buys us back at the cost of His own blood. 

So let us look at how Hosea points us to Christ through Christophanies and fulfillments. 

The first comes in Hosea 11:1: “When Israel was a child, I loved him, and I called my son out of Egypt.” At first glance, Hosea is clearly recalling Israel’s Exodus—the moment when God delivered His people from slavery and led them out into the wilderness. Yet Matthew applies this directly to Jesus. In Matthew 2:15 we read: “They stayed there until Herod’s death. This fulfilled what the Lord had spoken through the prophet: ‘I called my Son out of Egypt.’” 

In Matthew’s context, Joseph had been warned in a dream to flee with Mary and the child Jesus into Egypt to escape Herod’s massacre of the infants. After Herod’s death, the angel told Joseph it was safe to return. By linking this to Hosea, Matthew is telling us that Jesus is the true and better Israel. Where the nation failed in the wilderness—grumbling, doubting, turning to idols—Jesus triumphed. He entered the wilderness after His baptism and defeated Satan, quoting Scripture, succeeding where Israel fell short. Hosea’s prophecy, then, is not only about the Exodus past, but the greater Exodus fulfilled in Christ. 

The second comes in Hosea 6:6: “I want you to show love, not offer sacrifices. I want you to know me more than I want burnt offerings.” This verse is echoed by Jesus Himself. In Matthew 9:13, He declares, “Now go and learn the meaning of this Scripture: ‘I want you to show mercy, not offer sacrifices.’ For I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners.” Again in Matthew 12:7, He says, “But you would not have condemned my innocent disciples if you knew the meaning of this Scripture: ‘I want you to show mercy, not offer sacrifices.’” 

Jesus wields Hosea like a scalpel, cutting through the religious façade of the Pharisees. God never wanted hollow ritual. He wanted obedience from hearts shaped by mercy. Hosea declares it. Jesus embodies it. He is the mercy God has always desired. 

The third fulfillment comes from Hosea 10:8: “They will say to the mountains, ‘Cover us!’ and to the hills, ‘Fall on us!’” This warning reappears in Luke 23:30 as Jesus walks toward the cross: “Then they will begin to say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us,’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us.’” It appears again in Revelation 6:16: “And they cried to the mountains and the rocks, ‘Fall on us and hide us from the face of the one who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb.’” 

What Hosea declared as a warning of judgment on Israel, Jesus takes up as a prophecy of the coming destruction of Jerusalem. And John in Revelation stretches it to the end of time, showing the futility of hiding from the wrath of the Lamb. Hosea’s words became Christ’s words, pointing forward to both near and ultimate judgment. 

The fourth and perhaps most beautiful fulfillment is in Hosea 1:10 and 2:23: “Yet the number of the children of Israel shall be like the sand of the sea… In the place where it was said to them, ‘You are not my people,’ it shall be said to them, ‘Children of the living God.’… I will show love to those I called ‘Not Loved.’ And to those I called ‘Not My People,’ I will say, ‘Now you are my people.’” 

Paul quotes this in Romans 9:25–26: “Concerning the Gentiles, God says in the prophecy of Hosea, ‘Those who were not my people, I will now call my people. And I will love those whom I did not love before. And, “In the place where they were told, “You are not my people,” there they will be called “children of the living God.”’” Peter echoes the same in 1 Peter 2:10: “Once you had no identity as a people; now you are God’s people. Once you received no mercy; now you have received God’s mercy.” 

What Hosea prophesied for rebellious Israel explodes in Christ to include rebellious Gentiles. Outsiders become insiders. The unloved become beloved. Those without mercy receive mercy. All through Jesus Christ. 

Hosea’s entire prophecy is about betrayal, judgment, and restoration. Gomer’s unfaithfulness and Israel’s idolatry show us the ugliest side of humanity. But the shock of Hosea is not judgment—it is forgiveness. Hosea redeems his unfaithful wife, just as God keeps pursuing His unfaithful people. Every Christophany in Hosea points to Christ, the ultimate Redeemer, who forgives us, buys us back, and calls us His own. 

That means Hosea is not simply about Israel’s sin. It is about our sin. And it is about what we do when faced with betrayal, wounds, and failures. The logical next step after seeing Christ in Hosea is learning to forgive as we have been forgiven, to show mercy as we have received mercy, and to love the unloved as we have been loved. 

Hosea 13:14 gives us a direct line to the resurrection: “Should I ransom them from the grave? Should I redeem them from death? O death, bring on your terrors! O grave, bring on your plagues!” Paul seizes on this in 1 Corinthians 15:55 as the triumphant cry of Easter: “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?” What was once a taunt of judgment in Hosea becomes, in the light of Christ’s resurrection, a shout of victory. Death has been defanged, the grave defeated, and life eternal secured in Jesus. 

Hosea’s entire prophecy is about betrayal, judgment, and restoration. Gomer’s unfaithfulness and Israel’s idolatry show us the ugliest side of humanity. But the shock of Hosea is not judgment—it is forgiveness. Hosea redeems his unfaithful wife, just as God keeps pursuing His unfaithful people. Every Christophany in Hosea points to Christ, the ultimate Redeemer, who forgives us, buys us back, and calls us His own. 

That means Hosea is not simply about Israel’s sin. It is about our sin. And it is about what we do when faced with betrayal, wounds, and failures. The logical next step after seeing Christ in Hosea is learning to forgive as we have been forgiven, to show mercy as we have received mercy, and to love the unloved as we have been loved. 

One thing we must note here is that in Christianity, forgiveness is not optional. 

Consider Jesus’ words in Matthew 6:14–15: “If you forgive those who sin against you, your heavenly Father will forgive you. But if you refuse to forgive others, your Father will not forgive your sins.” That’s the line no one likes to repeat after the Lord’s Prayer. Instead, we tack on a doxology—“For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen”—which is beautiful, but was not in the earliest manuscripts. The truth is sharper: if you do not forgive, you will not be forgiven. 

Paul reinforces this in Colossians 3:13: “Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others.” Likewise, in Ephesians 4:32: “Instead, be kind to each other, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, just as God through Christ has forgiven you.” And again, in Mark 11:25: “But when you are praying, first forgive anyone you are holding a grudge against, so that your Father in heaven will forgive your sins, too.” 

Forgiveness is not some extra-credit assignment for spiritual elites. It is not reserved for “super Christians.” Forgiveness is the very core of the Gospel. The cross itself is God’s scandalous declaration that forgiveness lies at the center of His covenant love. 

And yet, this truth collides with our culture. We live in a world that is not shaped by mercy but by revenge and retribution. Jesus said in Matthew 5:38–39: “You have heard the law that says the punishment must match the injury: ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say, do not resist an evil person! If someone slaps you on the right cheek, offer the other cheek also.” This is not how our culture trains us to respond. 

In America especially, lawsuits, penalties, and so-called justice dominate our thinking. Everything is about settling the score. Yet the Gospel does not settle the score—it cancels it. 

I once heard a pastor say that felons, once they’ve served their prison sentences, should still not be allowed to vote. It shocked me that a preacher of the Gospel could say such a thing. Is that not the very opposite of the Gospel? If a man has served his time, repented, and been changed, should restoration not mean restoration? But in our culture, we say, “Some things are permanent.” Yet the Gospel declares, “Anyone who belongs to Christ has become a new person. The old life is gone; a new life has begun!” (2 Corinthians 5:17). 

Or consider the death penalty. America remains one of the few so-called civilized nations that still practices it. But what does it accomplish except to cut off a person’s opportunity to come to Christ? That is not the way of Jesus. In John 8, the Law of Moses gave the people every right—even the obligation—to stone the adulterous woman. The Law demanded her death. But Jesus said, “Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” And one by one they dropped their rocks. Then Jesus told her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more.” The very woman who deserved the death penalty received life—and mercy. That is the heart of the Gospel. 

And then there is cancel culture. In our modern world, when we dislike someone, we simply erase them. But it works on both sides. Some Christians boycott Disney because of sin in its messaging. Yet, if there are sinners there, is that not exactly the place Christians should be? Others sneer at the “woke” and discard not just ideas but the people themselves, insulting them, dismissing them, refusing to love them. But we were not called to discard people; we were called to love them. 

Hosea had every right to cancel Gomer. She betrayed him, shamed him, humiliated him. Yet he went and bought her back. Christ has done the same for us. If God’s mercy has canceled our entire record of sin, how dare we keep records of wrongs against others? 

As opposed to what the world tells us, and the way the world tells us to think and act, we must think in line with the Word, not the world. 

Paul wrote in Romans 12:2: “Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think.” That is the call—transformation, not conformity. And the first step in this change of thinking is to reflect. We need to think about what we have done before we look at others. 

Hosea reminds us of this. Israel wanted to accuse the nations, but God turned the charge back on them: “There is no faithfulness, no kindness, no knowledge of God in your land.” That was not about “them”—it was about Israel. And it is about us. 

Jesus illustrated the same truth in Matthew 7:3–5: “And why worry about a speck in your friend’s eye when you have a log in your own? How can you think of saying to your friend, ‘Let me help you get rid of that speck in your eye,’ when you can’t see past the log in your own eye? Hypocrite! First get rid of the log in your own eye; then you will see well enough to deal with the speck in your friend’s eye.” 

Paul echoes this in Romans 2:1: “You may think you can condemn such people, but you are just as bad, and you have no excuse! When you say they are wicked and should be punished, you are condemning yourself, for you who judge others do these very same things.” 

Again in Romans 12:3: “Because of the privilege and authority God has given me, I give each of you this warning: Don’t think you are better than you really are. Be honest in your evaluation of yourselves, measuring yourselves by the faith God has given us.” 

And in Galatians 6:3–4: “If you think you are too important to help someone, you are only fooling yourself. You are not that important. Pay careful attention to your own work, for then you will get the satisfaction of a job well done, and you won’t need to compare yourself to anyone else.” 

The call is clear: stop looking outward with pride, and look inward with humility. Paul concludes in 2 Corinthians 13:5: “Examine yourselves to see if your faith is genuine. Test yourselves.” 

Jesus presses the point with the image of the log and the speck. The contrast is intentional. He is saying that compared to the faults of others, our own sin is like a log blinding us from clarity and sound judgment. 

Now on judgment itself. Everyone likes to quote Matthew 7:1: “Do not judge others, and you will not be judged.” But Jesus goes on to say we must judge a tree by its fruit, so that we can discern false teachers and false prophets. We are to exercise judgment—but first, we must remove the log from our own eyes. 

Forgiveness begins with remembering how much we have been forgiven. 

This is why we must identify our sin, not compare it. Israel said, “At least we’re not as bad as the other nations.” Gomer could have said, “Other women are worse.” But sin is not graded on a curve. 

Jesus said in Matthew 5:21–22: “You have heard that our ancestors were told, ‘You must not murder. If you commit murder, you are subject to judgment.’ But I say, if you are even angry with someone, you are subject to judgment!” James 2:10 adds: “For the person who keeps all of the laws except one is as guilty as a person who has broken all of God’s laws.” 

Sin is universal. Romans 3:23 declares: “For everyone has sinned; we all fall short of God’s glorious standard.” That levels the ground. No one gets to say, “I am better.” All need mercy. 

Jesus drove this home with the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector in Luke 18:9–14. “Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a despised tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed this prayer: ‘I thank you, God, that I am not a sinner like everyone else. For I don’t cheat, I don’t sin, and I don’t commit adultery. I’m certainly not like that tax collector! I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income.’ But the tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed. Instead, he beat his chest in sorrow, saying, ‘O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner.’ I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home justified before God. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.” 

The Pharisee compared; the tax collector identified. The Pharisee defined himself by being “better” than others. The tax collector simply confessed: “Be merciful to me, a sinner.” Hosea condemned Israel for doing the same as the Pharisee—trusting in rituals, priests, and comparisons with other nations instead of owning their sin before God. 

The Pharisee saw no need to be forgiven; his prayer was a résumé. The tax collector asked for mercy and received justification. Hosea 14 contains the same cry: “Return, O Israel, to the Lord your God, for your sins have brought you down. Bring your confessions, and return to the Lord.” Forgiveness begins not with comparison, but with confession. 

How often do we do this—hide behind our good deeds and list our religious résumé? Sometimes not even with words, but with visible acts that make sure others see us. Yet Jesus warned: when you give, do not do it to be seen. When you fast, do not do it to be seen. When you pray, do not do it to be seen. For if you do, you have your reward already. 

When we compare ourselves, we close the door to forgiveness. But when we identify ourselves as sinners in need of grace—like the tax collector—God opens the floodgates of forgiveness. 

Hosea, Gomer, Israel’s shame, and the tax collector’s prayer all teach the same truth: forgiveness begins where pride ends. 

Once we have done the work of self-reflection, forgiving some people will come easier than forgiving others. Part of that self-examination is keeping our role and responsibility in the situation at the front of our minds. 

I recall a time when I was caught in a vicious lawsuit with a former business partner. It dragged on for years and eventually called us back to New York from Florida for depositions. That in itself was a shock—leaving the paradise of Florida for the bitter cold of New York in the middle of a legal war. 

My wife was the first to be deposed. If you have never been in one, it is an excruciating experience. Hours of interrogation under oath, every word dissected. She endured eight straight hours of questioning. To make it worse, the man suing me was sitting right there. Usually only the attorneys are present, but in this case, he came, glaring at us the entire time. I watched as the opposing lawyer barked at my wife, and when I tried to interject, I was told to be quiet. My blood boiled as I sat there helpless. 

This was before I became a pastor, but I was a new Christian then, and so was my wife. We prayed. As the deposition drew to a close, I asked Jesus what to do. And then, without planning it, words came out of my mouth that were not my own. I looked across the table and said, “I am sorry for whatever my role and responsibility was in this situation.” 

Those were not my words—they were the Lord’s. The effect was immediate. What had been a years-long lawsuit dissolved in that moment. The man across the table began to cry. With tears in his eyes he said, “I’m done with this too.” He confessed that his wife had been battling cancer throughout the ordeal. In that moment we spoke about praying for her. Shortly after, the entire lawsuit settled. 

What changed everything was not legal maneuvering or argument—it was confession, humility, and apology. We must not only acknowledge our role and responsibility; we must be willing to say, “I’m sorry.” Genuine apologies go a long way, but they must be real. A true apology does not come with a “but.” When we add “but,” it disqualifies everything we just said. I was taught in pastoral training to watch for that word in people’s speech—whatever comes after “but” is what they really mean. Your apology should not be a runway to your justification. It should be sincere and complete. 

That said, forgiveness does not always mean we become best friends again. Forgiveness does not mean we erase boundaries. Jesus Himself taught that we must be “wise as serpents and harmless as doves” (Matthew 10:16). Boundaries in forgiveness are not a lack of grace; they are a form of wisdom. Hosea brought Gomer back, but it came with conditions—she was required to remain faithful to him (Hosea 3:3). God forgave Israel, but He also warned them not to run back to idols. Paul wrote in Romans 12:18: “Do all that you can to live in peace with everyone.” Proverbs 22:3 reminds us: “A prudent person foresees danger and takes precautions.” 

So we see two sides of the same coin. Forgiveness is commanded; reconciliation and proximity are conditional. Healthy boundaries protect us from enabling sin, even while reflecting the mercy of Christ. Sometimes forgiveness from afar is necessary. 

This is exactly what Hosea models with Gomer. He tells her, in essence, “You must remain apart for a time. You must stop your prostitution and live faithfully.” Forgiveness was offered, but boundaries were set. 

The New Testament offers a vivid parallel in 1 Corinthians 5. Paul is addressing a church riddled with problems, and among them was a shocking case of sexual sin: a man living with his stepmother. In that cultural setting, such a scenario could easily arise. Women often died young in childbirth, and widowers sometimes remarried much younger women. It is not hard to imagine a man in his forties marrying a woman in her teens, only a few years older than his own son. The result was a scandal. Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 5:1–2: “I can hardly believe the report about the sexual immorality going on among you—something that even pagans don’t do. I am told that a man in your church is living in sin with his stepmother. You are so proud of yourselves, but you should be mourning in sorrow and shame. And you should remove this man from your fellowship.” 

Paul then says he is handing the man over to Satan—not for eternal damnation, but for discipline, that he might repent and ultimately be saved. In other words, Paul insists that this man must be removed. Forgiveness does not mean enabling sin. Sometimes love requires separation. 

This pattern is the same one Jesus Himself laid out in Matthew 18. He gave the church a process: “If another believer sins against you, go privately and point out the offense. If the other person listens and confesses it, you have won that person back. But if you are unsuccessful, take one or two others with you and go back again… If the person still refuses to listen, take your case to the church. Then if he or she won’t accept the church’s decision, treat that person as a pagan or a corrupt tax collector.” Forgiveness is required, but the relationship may be suspended. 

Note:
Right after laying out the process of discipline and restoration, Peter comes to Jesus with the natural question: “Lord, how often should I forgive someone who sins against me? Seven times?” (Matthew 18:21). Peter probably thought he was being generous, since rabbis in his day often taught three strikes and you’re done. But Jesus answered, “Not seven times, but seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22). In other words, forgiveness is not about keeping score but losing count. To drive the point home, Jesus tells the parable of the unforgiving slave who was forgiven an unpayable debt by his master but refused to forgive a fellow servant a small amount. The master’s wrath falls on him, and Jesus warns that the same will happen if we refuse to forgive others. The point is clear: forgiven people must forgive. If we withhold forgiveness, we are denying the very grace that saved us.

The tragedy today is that this process is often ignored or misused. Too often people gossip under the guise of “seeking counsel,” instead of simply obeying Jesus and going directly to the person. Or they skip steps, rushing straight to public shaming. But Jesus’ process is clear: confrontation in private, confirmation with a few, then—only if necessary—a church-wide decision. 

This becomes especially important when dealing with toxic personalities like narcissists. Such people will exploit grace, demand time, and twist forgiveness into control. With them, forgiveness will never be enough. Your time will never be enough. Your love will never be enough. Giving in to their endless demands is not loving—it is enabling. And enabling is not biblical love. 

Paul understood this. He loved the sinner enough to say, “You cannot stay here.” He loved the church enough to say, “We cannot allow this cancer to spread.” He loved Christ enough to defend the integrity of His bride. Forgiveness remained, but boundaries had to be drawn. 

The goal in all of this is reconciliation. 

Remember Hosea’s promise in chapter 2: once God called His people “Not Loved” and “Not My People,” but His plan was always to reverse the curse. Paul understood this. In 1 Corinthians 5 he told the church to remove a man caught in grievous sin. But in 2 Corinthians 2:6–8 he wrote: “Most of you opposed him, and that was punishment enough. Now, however, it is time to forgive and comfort him. Otherwise he may be overcome by discouragement. So I urge you now to reaffirm your love for him.” The same Paul who said “remove him” also said “restore him.” Forgiveness at a distance should always carry the hope of reconciliation. 

That is exactly what God did with Israel. He removed them from the land, disciplined them, and called them “Not My People.” But His ultimate plan was restoration. “Now you are my people. Now you are loved.” Forgiving from afar does not mean writing people off—it means holding boundaries until repentance comes, with the goal of bringing them back. 

But often the hardest part of forgiveness is forgiving yourself. Sometimes the obstacle is not letting go of someone else’s sin but letting go of your own. Self-reflection too easily turns into self-punishment. We carry our guilt and replay our shame, as if disciplining ourselves were somehow righteous. But discipline is God’s work, not ours. That is true both for the person we struggle to forgive and for ourselves. 

Hosea’s wife, Gomer, had to live with the scandal of public shame. Maybe you too live under scandal, regret, or failure. But Scripture is clear. 1 John 1:9 promises: “If we confess our sins to him, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness.” Psalm 103:12 declares: “He has removed our sins as far from us as the east is from the west.” Romans 8:1 proclaims: “So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.” Micah 7:19 says: “Once again you will have compassion on us. You will trample our sins under your feet and throw them into the depths of the ocean!” 

The question is: do we believe this? We say we are Christians. We say we believe the Bible. But do we actually believe God has forgiven us? Or do we keep playing God by holding our own sins against ourselves? If God has forgiven you, who are you to keep arguing with Him? To reject His forgiveness is not humility—it is unbelief. 

Forgiveness is never easy. Hosea had to walk into the slave market and buy back his wife. Jesus had to walk up Calvary’s hill. Forgiveness always costs something. But it is the only way to freedom. 

How do we do it? First, we must admit it. Stop hiding. Like Gomer, you may think no one knows how bad you have been, but God knows—and usually, the people around you know as well. Wearing a mask fools no one. God sees it, and He loves you anyway. Confession tears off the mask and opens the way to healing. James 5:16 says: “Confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The earnest prayer of a righteous person has great power and produces wonderful results.” 

Next, we must tear down our idols. Israel did not just stumble once; they worshiped other gods for generations. What are you worshiping? Money? Approval? Comfort? Success? Smash those idols and return your heart to the God who has never betrayed you. 

Finally, receive His pursuing love. God does not simply forgive from a distance. He runs after us. He buys us back at the highest price—the blood of His Son. Do not just know about this forgiveness—accept it. Let it sink in. Be willing to forgive yourself as He has forgiven you. 

Jesus told the story of the prodigal son. The younger son squandered his inheritance and hit rock bottom, longing to eat pig food. When he finally came to his senses, he resolved to return home—not as a son, but as a servant. Yet while he was still far off, the father saw him coming and ran to him. That is the heart of God. He was waiting all along. He restored his son, threw a party, and clothed him in honor. The older brother was outraged and accused him of wasting it all on prostitutes. But the father’s love proved greater than the accusation. 

There will always be accusers. That is Satan’s name—the accuser. There will always be people who whisper, “Remember what you did.” But the Father has the final word. 

Hosea shows us that God does not love us because we are lovable. He loves us because He is love. And that love empowers us to forgive, even when it feels impossible. You may wrestle with shame, you may struggle to forgive, but if God can forgive centuries of Israel’s betrayal, if Christ can forgive the soldiers who nailed Him to the cross, then there is no wound too deep for His grace. 

Hosea teaches that God’s love does not quit when we wander. He does not write us off when we betray Him. He disciplines, yes, He draws boundaries, but His goal is always restoration. Hosea bought back Gomer when she was not worth buying. Christ bought us back at the cross when we were not worth saving—or at least when we thought we weren’t. That is the Gospel. Forgiven people forgive. 

So what do we do with this? We forgive those who are hard to love. Sometimes that means from a distance. Sometimes it means waiting for repentance. Sometimes it means forgiving ourselves so we stop arguing with the cross of Christ. But in every case, forgiveness is never optional, because forgiveness is the heartbeat of God. You cannot out-sin His grace. You cannot run far enough to escape His love. But you can choke His life out of your soul by refusing to forgive. 

When we forgive, we stop praying like the Pharisee—“At least I’m not like them”—and we start praying like the tax collector: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” 

And here is the hope. Just as Paul told the Corinthians to restore the fallen brother, just as Hosea restored Gomer, just as God restores us—true forgiveness always leaves the door open for reconciliation. 

Maybe today you need to forgive someone. Maybe you need to forgive yourself. Either way, you need to hear this: you are not your past. You are not your failure. In Christ, you are loved, restored, and His. Come home. Return to the God who never stops loving you. Tear down your idols, let go of your grudges, and fall into the arms of the One who paid your ransom with His blood. For the same God who once said “Not My People” has the last word. And His last word over you is this: “Now you are My people. Now you are loved.” 

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©️ Copyright 2025 Gene Simco Most Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved. Scriptures in brackets reflect the original Biblical languages.

Hosea - Loving The Unloved

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