This next section begins with a call to worship that would sound familiar to ancient Israelites—echoing the tone of priestly summons or psalms of invitation (Psalm 95:1; 100:4). The “faithful” worshipers are urged to come to Bethel and Gilgal, the major religious sites of the northern kingdom. But the invitation is shocking: they are not called to honor God but to multiply transgressions—to be rebellious and to break the covenant. The word for “transgress” shares the same root as the word used in Amos 1–2 to describe the sins of the nations. Israel, despite its covenant privilege, is no different from the other families of the world.

Amos uses irony and satire throughout this passage. The people appear zealous: they bring sacrifices daily, tithes every three days, and offer leavened bread with thanksgiving offerings. Outwardly, their devotion looks impressive—perhaps even excessive. But inwardly, they are rebellious. The very acts meant to express gratitude and fellowship have become self-serving.

There’s even a subtle callback to the previous paragraph: as the cows of Bashan called their masters to “bring drinks,” so now the prophet calls the people to “bring sacrifices.” Both are grotesque images of table fellowship—one that ignores the neighbor, the other that dishonors God the Host.

This is the core tragedy of the passage: sacrifices were designed to draw the worshiper near to God and to transform them so they could carry out their calling in the world. The peace offering culminated in a shared meal—table fellowship with God Himself. But now, while they go through the motions, they continue to dishonor their Host. It is as if they sit at God’s table but spit in His face. Their rituals continue, but repentance is absent.

Notably, Amos doesn’t mention sin offerings or atonement. These worshipers do not seek forgiveness—they continue in sin. They assume that religious activity will cover over their rebellion. But God has already exposed the farce. They do all these things, not because they love God, but because “this is what you love to do” (4:5). The poetic structure highlights this final line with a deliberate disruption in cadence. It’s a stunning reversal: the sacrifices intended to express love for God now reveal only love for self. Whereas we would expect them to worship because God has been good to them and because they love Him, we are told instead that they worship because they love themselves. Their relationship with God—meant to shape them into a people who love Him, love their neighbor, and reflect His character and justice—has not transformed them at all.

Amos’s audience might have looked pious from the outside. With the seven imperatives in the text, they appear to be the perfect worshipers. But with satire as his scalpel, Amos reveals the rot underneath. Like Saul in Gilgal (1 Samuel 15), they disobey while worshiping. They offer generous sacrifices without listening to God’s voice. But, as Samuel declared to Saul: “To obey is better than sacrifice… For rebellion is as the sin of divination.” Their worship, mixed with rebellion, has become idolatry. They no longer worship the living God, but a god made in their image.

In Leviticus and Deuteronomy, as God entered into covenant with His people, He promised to bless them and their land when they listened to His voice and walked in His ways. The land would flourish—becoming like Eden itself. But He also warned them: if they were unfaithful, if they turned from His commandments and served other gods, then curses would come upon them. The land would suffer, their harvests would fail, their enemies would rise, and they would be driven to despair. This was not because God had forgotten them or broken His promise, but because they had forgotten Him. These covenant warnings weren’t threats—they were gracious calls to return whenever the people strayed.

What was spoken in the Law as a future warning is now declared by Amos as fulfilled reality. These events had already happened, and Amos is now interpreting their recent history through the covenant lens. What Israel experienced wasn’t bad luck or natural misfortune; it was the hand of God, acting in history to call His people back. He sent famine, drought, disease, and war—not in vengeance, but in mercy. It would have been unkind for God to leave them undisturbed in their sin and self-deception. His judgment was a gracious interruption—an urgent summons to repent. And yet, the refrain that echoes again and again is devastating: “Yet you did not return to me.”

This paragraph is deliberately structured to parallel the previous one. Just as seven imperatives were used in 4:4–5—ironically calling people to empty religious rituals—so now there are seven judgments, each more intense than the last. Together, they form a complete case against Israel. The message is clear: your sin and false worship has not gone unnoticed, and God has responded. Israel has offered God unrepentant worship—and in return, He has sent not blessing, but curse. Their rituals, meant to draw them near, have become offenses that provoke Him to act.

The first four judgments fall upon the land—natural disasters that disrupt the basic rhythms of provision and harvest. God sends famine, described vividly as “clean teeth”—a poetic way of saying they had nothing to eat. Their mouths may be clean, but their hearts remain impure, hardened in unrepentance. Then comes drought: rain falls on one town and not another, a phenomenon unusual enough that it should have caught their attention. This wasn’t just bad weather—it was the hand of God. Still, they remained thirsty—both physically and spiritually. After that, blight and mildew strike their crops—diseases that scorch and rot the grain. And then, locusts devour whatever remains. Ironically, while Israel hungers, the locusts are satisfied. These judgments weren’t subtle. Their harvests were disrupted, their food diminished, their thank offerings—especially those tied to grain and wine—would have noticeably declined. This should have jolted them into reflection. The signs were clear: something was off, and God was calling. But they did not return.

The next three judgments strike not the land, but the people themselves. Pestilence spreads, echoing the plagues of Egypt—a nation remembered for its defiance and oppression. Then comes death through war, and the image turns grotesque: bodies lie unburied, their stench rising—a stark contrast to the “pleasing aroma” that was supposed to ascend from the altar. Finally, the people are “overthrown,” a word used elsewhere to describe the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Amos isn’t simply referencing history—he’s making a comparison. Israel has become like Egypt, Sodom, and Gomorrah—iconic examples of rebellion, oppression, and judgment. They have not only forgotten who they are—they have become what they were meant to stand against. The covenant people now resemble the pagan nations they were called to stand apart from. Instead of being holy and distinct, they are indistinguishable from the godless. And so they are treated the same: struck down, judged, and left with only a few survivors—like sticks snatched from a fire.

This entire sequence of judgments reveals not randomness, but sovereignty. As in Amos 3:6, it is the Lord who brings calamity—not out of cruelty, but in the hope that His people would return to Him. God is not absent; He is actively at work, disciplining His people in love. Yet each act of mercy—each warning wrapped in suffering—has been ignored. The repeated refrain, “Yet you did not return to me,” is both heartbreaking and damning. Israel’s sin hasn’t just damaged their relationship with God—it has spilled out into the land itself. The natural world suffers under their rebellion: crops fail, fields rot, and locusts swarm. Those created to subdue the earth and care for it in partnership with God have instead brought disorder and curse. Rather than being a blessing to the nations, Israel now mirrors them in sin and shares in their judgment. They are not bearing God’s name with honor, and so God must act—not only for their sake, but for the sake of His name among the nations and all creation.

This makes Israel’s refusal all the more tragic when seen against the backdrop of Solomon’s prayer at the dedication of the temple. Solomon foresaw a day when God’s people would sin and experience drought, famine, plague, or defeat in battle. But he prayed that if they turned their hearts back to God, stretched out their hands in repentance, and cried out for mercy, then God would hear from heaven, forgive their sin, and heal the land (1 Kings 8:33–51). God was pleased with that prayer. It reflected His heart—a desire not to destroy His people, but to restore them. And yet, despite experiencing nearly every one of those warnings—drought, mildew, pestilence, defeat—they have not returned. They, like Saul before them, have chosen religious ritual without relational obedience. God waits for a broken heart—but finds only hardened ones.

God was in covenant relationship with His people. He was their Suzerain, promising to care for them, fight for them, and provide for them. In return, they were His vassal, pledging to obey Him and give Him honor. But when they broke that covenant—when they withheld obedience, ignored His voice, and dishonored His name—He sent warning after warning. Still, they did not return. In the ancient Near East, when a vassal defied their suzerain, war would follow. This was not simply political retaliation—it was covenant enforcement, justice demanded by the terms of their sworn allegiance.

Therefore, Amos is sent as God’s herald to declare what comes next: the Suzerain is on the move. He will bring war against His rebellious people. Amos has already hinted at this devastating climax in earlier passages: in 2:13–16, God crushes them, leaving their army defenseless; in 3:11–12, an enemy surrounds and plunders their land; in 4:3, the people are led away in shame. Now comes the chilling announcement: “Therefore… prepare to meet your God.” What He will do is left ominously vague. But one thing is clear: this meeting will not be one of friendship or covenant renewal. It will be judgment. They will meet God—not in worship, but in war.

There is irony here. The chapter began with false worship at Bethel and Gilgal—supposed “meetings” with God that were nothing more than hollow ritual. Now, they are truly called to meet Him. But not as they expected. The covenant relationship has been so thoroughly violated that the meeting becomes a confrontation. This language of “preparation” and “meeting” echoes Exodus 19, when God descended on Mount Sinai and Israel trembled before His holiness. Then, it was a covenant beginning. Now, it is a covenant reckoning. The blood once sprinkled to seal the promise will now be poured out in judgment for its violation.

To heighten the weight of this announcement, Amos ends the chapter with one of his signature doxologies—a sudden burst of praise for God’s power and glory. This is one of three doxologies in the book (see also 5:8; 9:5–6), each brief, poetic, and climactic. They describe God using participles that emphasize His ongoing activity in creation. They all end with His divine name. What’s unique in Amos is where these doxologies appear: in the middle of judgment oracles. While other prophets praise God, Amos places His praise alongside wrath. He wants his audience to know that the One coming in judgment is not a local deity or tribal god—He is the Maker of all things, the Lord of heaven and earth.

The first two participles in the hymn portray God as the Creator of both the mountains and the wind. From the strongest and most stable to the most delicate and invisible, all things come from His hand. This is a poetic merism—He made it all. And as Creator, He commands it all. The previous verses already showed this: drought, locusts, and famine respond to His voice. Now we see the One behind the signs—He is not only judging Israel; He is commanding creation to do it.

The third description is central: He reveals His thoughts to humankind. Unlike idols who remain silent, Israel’s God has spoken. He has sent His prophets. They know His character, His covenant, His expectations—and now, they also know what is coming. They are without excuse.

The final two images portray a divine warrior striding forward. He turns the morning into darkness—not by dimming the sun, but by arriving in cloud and storm. He treads the high places, likely evoking thunder, lightning, and the approach of His chariot.

He is the Lord of hosts—the Commander of the angelic armies—and He is marching toward them in judgment.

The God who once descended in cloud and thunder to make covenant now descends again, but not in peace. These five characteristics were known to Israel from Sinai—when He subdued creation to deliver them, appeared in glory, and revealed His purposes in covenant. Now, those same traits are revealed again as He comes to meet them—but this time in war. This is the dreadful climax of covenant betrayal: to meet the God who saves—not as Redeemer, but as Judge.