Opening Prayer and Why We’re in Leviticus on Easter

Lord God, thank you for this morning. Thank you for an opportunity to celebrate your resurrection. Lord, it is such a sweet truth that so often throughout our lives we forget or put on the back burner. I’m grateful that we live in a society where, even though most people do it wrong, they at least set aside a day to remember that you have risen.

As we come to your Word this morning, as we open up the book of Leviticus, help us remember and be in awe of what it means to be in your presence and of how significant an act it was for you to go to the cross. In your name, amen.

Well, he is risen. All right. This is not a church that does that very well, so I figured we’d try.

This morning I’m doing one of our NGM lessons. It covers five lessons the kids are going over over the next several weeks, because we don’t have NGM today and we don’t have NGM on the 25-year anniversary service. So this is our Leviticus overview.

The last time we touched the kids’ curriculum, we were in Exodus back in February. I don’t expect anyone to remember it, so let me lay the groundwork for what we’re talking about today.

In Exodus, God’s presence returned to his people, but there was still a significant distance. So God gives them sacrifices, priests, the Day of Atonement, and then says, “Now live like people who belong to me.” That is the arc of what we’re going to be talking about today.

The main point of our story this morning is that God built an entire system to teach his people that earning their way into his presence is impossible. However, we sit on this side of Calvary, so we must remind ourselves daily of this distance that the cross had to cross.

It happens to be Easter. It wasn’t planned this way, but as I reviewed what I was supposed to teach, I thought, man, this is a perfect preview to Resurrection Sunday.

From Sinai to Separation

Let’s open up our Bibles, and we’re actually going to start in the book of Exodus. When we read together, we’ll be reading in Exodus 33. But let me give you some background.

In our February NGM lesson, we walked through three chapters in Exodus. God brought Israel to the base of Mount Sinai. He had carried them out of Egypt, parted the Red Sea, fed them manna, and when they arrived at the mountain, he spoke to the entire nation. God himself, out of the fire and the smoke and a shaking mountain, directly spoke to his people, giving them the Ten Commandments with his own voice.

They were terrified. They begged God to stop talking. They told Moses, “Speak to us yourself and we will listen, but don’t let God speak to us or we’ll die.” So Moses stepped in as a go-between. He went up into the thick darkness where God was, and the people stayed at the base of the mountain. This was the first time in the story where the need for a mediator was obvious.

Then God gave Moses seven chapters of a construction plan for a tent: measurements, materials, furniture, fabrics, detail that feels endless in a reading plan. And he did it because he wanted to live with them. The people had just begged God to stop talking to them, and his response was, “No. Make me a tent. Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” The tabernacle was his answer to the distance that sin had created. He is both holy enough to kill anyone who touches that mountain and willing to live in a tent in the middle of their camp. That’s the tension the gospel shows us.

While Moses was up on that mountain receiving those plans, Israel was at the base making a golden calf. Aaron, the guy who was the voice for Moses, who had walked through the Red Sea on dry ground, asked for every piece of gold and melted it down and said, “These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you from the land of Egypt.” He assigned the credit for what Yahweh had done to a piece of metal that had barely even existed in that form. Then he put God’s name on it: “Tomorrow shall be a feast to Yahweh.” So he made this graven image and then named it God. This wasn’t just rejecting God. It was redefining him.

God told Moses he was ready to destroy them. He said, “Let’s start over.” Moses argued with God, not on the basis of Israel’s character, but on God’s. He appealed to God’s ownership of the people, God’s glory, God’s promises to Abraham. So God relented, but 3,000 men still died on that day. The sons of Levi went through the camp with swords. These were everybody’s friends and brothers, and Israel felt the weight that their sin had caused.

Then Moses went back up to God and said, “If you will forgive their sin—but if not, please blot me out from your book which you have written.” Moses said, “Take me instead.” And God said, “No.” He said, “Whoever has sinned against me, I will blot him out of my book.” Moses couldn’t ransom them. He could not be the mediator. He could not be the true payment for their guilt.

That’s where we ended two months ago. We ended at Exodus 32. We knew that God is just, because God killed 3,000 men for their sin. And we knew that God is merciful, because he carried forward a people that didn’t deserve to be carried.

After the golden calf, God tells Moses he’ll still give Israel the land. He’ll still send an angel to drive out their enemies. But he says this in Exodus 33:3:

“Go up to a land flowing with milk and honey, for I will not go up in your midst because you are a stiff-necked people, lest I consume you on the way.”

They still get what they were promised. They’re going up to the land. But they don’t get the most important part: God. And the text is very clear about the reason. God didn’t withdraw his presence as punishment. He did it to protect them: “lest I consume you on the way.” His holiness is so pure that his presence among a stiff-necked people would destroy them.

That word stiff-necked is an agricultural term. An ox that stiffens its neck against the yoke refuses to be led. You can pull all you want; you’re not moving that ox. He’s stiff-necked. He won’t be led. That is what God was calling Israel: a people that would not be led. He speaks to them and they build a calf. He commands and they do what is right in their own eyes.

The text doesn’t hold Israel up as an example of repentance. They mourn when they hear this news. They strip off their jewelry as a sign of grief. But this is the same people who will grumble for 40 years in the wilderness. They didn’t really understand what they did. They just didn’t like the punishment.

God didn’t just refuse to dwell in their midst. He physically separated himself from them. Moses takes the tent of meeting and pitches it outside the camp. Exodus 33:7 says he put it a good distance from the camp. So if you want to seek Yahweh, he’s not in your midst anymore. You have to leave the camp. You have to go a good distance. You have to see a physical picture of the reality that God is not existing among you anymore, because God’s glory and human sin cannot coexist.

Then Moses goes into that tent and prays. He doesn’t point to anything in Israel. He reaches for God’s own character. Moses says, “You have said, ‘I have known you by name, and you have also found favor in my sight.’” His intercession rests on God’s initiative, not Israel’s improvement. That word favor is the same Hebrew word that shows up throughout the Old Testament for grace. It’s unmerited. It’s already in motion before Moses opened his mouth.

This is the picture of New Testament grace. Paul says in Ephesians, “By grace you have been saved through faith, not of yourselves. It’s a gift from God.” The pattern is the same with Moses. God moved first. The entire sacrificial system in Leviticus exists because God chose to be gracious. Israel didn’t design it. God did.

So when we read Leviticus, we should read it thinking, this is a gracious gift from our Lord. Every word in this book is a way God made so that he could be among his people.

The next morning Moses climbed Sinai alone, and God descended in the cloud and stood there with him, and he called upon the name of Yahweh. In Exodus 34:6–7, God speaks about himself:

“Then Yahweh passed by in front of him, Moses. And Yahweh called out, ‘Yahweh, Yahweh, God, compassionate and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in lovingkindness and truth, who keeps lovingkindness for thousands, who forgives iniquity, transgression, and sin. Yet he will by no means leave the guilty unpunished, visiting the iniquity of fathers on the children and on the grandchildren to the third and fourth generations.’”

In these verses, God is defining himself. He calls himself compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, abounding in lovingkindness, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin—three different words for sin, and God forgives it all. Then, in the same breath, God says he will by no means leave the guilty unpunished. He forgives sin and he punishes sin.

If you don’t feel the tension in that sentence, you’re not paying close enough attention. How does a God who abounds in lovingkindness and will by no means leave the guilty unpunished deal with a stiff-necked people that he’s chosen to love? This isn’t resolved in Exodus. Frankly, it’s not resolved in Leviticus. Every sacrifice, every priest, every Day of Atonement is God saying, “I’m holding both of these truths at once, and I’m giving you a system to live under while you wait for the real answer.”

The Question Leviticus Exists to Answer

After Moses’s intercession, after God proclaims his name on the mountain, and after the tabernacle is finally completed, the people built it exactly as God commanded. So God keeps his promise. Turn a couple of pages to Exodus 40.

“Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of Yahweh filled the tabernacle, and Moses was not able to enter the tent of meeting because the cloud had dwelt on it, and the glory of Yahweh filled the tabernacle.”

God is near. God came back. God chose to dwell in the middle of his people. And even Moses—the man who just saw God’s back on the mountain, the man who has spoken to God face to face—can’t even walk in. The glory fills the place so completely that no human can enter.

That’s the question Leviticus exists to answer. The same God who told Moses, “No man can see me and live,” is now dwelling in the center of a camp full of sinful people. How can they survive? How can anyone get near him?

The answer isn’t something the Israelites figured out on their own. God himself built a system. He designed every sacrifice. He appointed every priest. He established every ritual because the gap between his holiness and their sin was too wide for them to cross. So he said, “Let me build a bridge.”

That’s the story that leads us to the book of Leviticus. That’s where we stand when we open it and ask, “Why all of these rules?” The next lessons in the curriculum for the kids go through that answer. Over the next couple of months, they’re going through Leviticus, and this is an opportunity for us to show them how important this book is for every Christian.

God’s glory fills the tabernacle. He’s now in the middle of his people. The first thing he does from that tabernacle is speak, and he gives Moses instructions for the sacrifices. In these, God establishes the cost of being near him.

The Cost of Nearness: Blood, Atonement, and the Offerings

Leviticus gives us five different types of offering: the sin offering and the guilt offering, which dealt with the problem of sin; the burnt offering, which expressed total dedication to God; the grain offering, which honored God’s provision; and the fellowship offering, sometimes called the peace offering, which celebrated the restored relationship between God and his people. Five offerings, each doing something different.

But the system has a logic to it, and this logic matters more than the mechanics of it. When the offerings were brought, the order was fixed. Leviticus 9 shows this order of offering: sin offering first, then burnt, then fellowship. You can’t skip to peace with God. Sin has to be dealt with. You can’t dedicate yourself to him before you can be dedicated to him. And you have to be dedicated to him before you can enjoy fellowship with him. Sin, burnt, fellowship. The order isn’t arbitrary. The order is the gospel. You don’t start with fellowship. You start with the blood.

In the last lesson, we talked about the bronze altar, the largest piece of furniture in the entire tabernacle complex, and the first thing inside that gate. You couldn’t skip it. You couldn’t go around it. Two lambs every day, one in the morning, one at night, plus whatever individual offerings were brought throughout the day. The four horns of this altar were smeared dark with blood. It was probably never fully clean. The next day, it would start again.

This wasn’t necessarily a spectacular event. The person bringing the offering did most of the work himself. Look at Leviticus 1:3–5:

“If his offering is a burnt offering from the herd, he shall bring it near, a male without blemish. He shall bring it near to the doorway of the tent of meeting that he may be accepted before Yahweh. And he shall lay his hand on the head of the burnt offering that it may be accepted for him to make atonement on his behalf. Then he shall slaughter the young bull before Yahweh.”

The person bringing this offering brings the animal himself. He lays his hand on its head, and then he kills it. I’m not a hunter. I’ve never field-dressed an animal, because that sounds like a terrible thing to do. I have no desire to do that.

But this process is doing that before the animal ever dies. He draws the blade across the animal’s throat while his hand is still on its head. The animal bleeds out while the man’s hand is still pressing down on its skull. Blood pours onto the ground at his feet. The animal’s legs buckle. Its body convulses. And the man stands there with blood on his hands because God designed this system so that the cost of sin would be something you felt. They held the animal down while it struggled.

Then the person who brought this offering kept working. He skinned the animal himself. He cut it into pieces, removed the internal organs, and the priest arranged the pieces on the altar. Then the priest offered up all of it in smoke, a burnt offering, an offering by fire of a soothing aroma to Yahweh. The whole area smelled of blood and burning flesh. This is the aroma of worship under the old covenant. This is what it costs to come near to a holy God.

I think we sanitize this. We’ll read, “He shall slaughter the young bull before Yahweh,” and our minds skip right to the theology. But God designed this process to be experienced and felt, with blood running down your arms, soaking your feet in the dirt, and the smell of an open carcass—which, I’ll tell you what, is awful.

Back in the day, I did a Tyson chicken and International Beef Packers tour project, and walking into that space when it was not cooled will punch you in the face. I was proud. I was the only one that did not puke. Standing there in that moment must be atrocious. The cost of sin must feel like so much weight.

It’s not just a hymn. This was not theological abstraction. This was life draining out of an animal while the offerer holds a blade in his hand. And God wanted his people to feel that every single time. This should have been you. You should be the one bleeding. You should be the one dying. The cost of your sin is life.

Have you ever dealt with blood? Not like the paper cut I got yesterday moving cardboard. Real blood. Significant blood. That’s why I don’t want to do anything in the medical industry either. Blood is not cool. I’m good without it. I have to tell myself it’s just Hershey’s chocolate. They dye it red. This was flowing with blood. It stains everything.

And God chose to use blood as a means of atonement, not water, not oil. Leviticus 17:11 says:

“For the life of the flesh is in the blood, and I have given it to you on the altar to make atonement for your souls. For it is the blood that makes atonement by the life.”

Blood equals life. God designed it that way so that when blood was shed, we could see the cost of sin. The cost of sin is not effort. It’s not good intentions. It’s not a scale where your better acts outweigh your bad acts. Something has to die so someone else can live. The blood on the altar is visible, physical, unavoidable proof that sin is a life-and-death situation.

And God is the one who provided the solution. The priest splashed blood around the altar, blood on the altar, blood at the doorway. There’s no way to approach God in this system without passing through blood. The author of Hebrews says, “Without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sin.” This isn’t just theology. It is the architecture of the system God built.

There’s a grain offering too. It’s not about atonement. It’s a gift. Leviticus 2:1 describes fine flour mixed with oil and frankincense, offered to honor God’s provision. But even here he says there is no yeast. Throughout Scripture, yeast represents sin. You can’t bring an offering to God while clinging to the thing that separates you from him. Even the non-atoning offering teaches holiness.

The guilt offering dealt with sins that caused specific harm to another person or to God’s holy things. Leviticus 6:5 describes someone who swore falsely or defrauded their neighbor. You didn’t just sacrifice a ram. You made full restitution, giving 20 percent more, and you gave it back on the day you brought your guilt offering. You had to make it right.

There’s a phrase that repeats throughout these chapters: “The priest shall make atonement for him, and he will be forgiven.” Over and over. Atonement, forgiven. This is the system God created, and the worshiper walks away forgiven.

But he’s going to sin again, and he’s going to need another animal. The priest will need to do this again—over and over and over, next week, next month, next year. The repetition is the point. If this had been sufficient, he would have only needed to do this once. Hebrews 10:1 says:

“For the law, since it has only a shadow of the good things to come and not the very form of things, can never by the same sacrifices which they offer continually year by year, make perfect those who draw near.”

The author of Hebrews is making an argument about the whole system. It is a shadow. It shows you the shape of something real, but the shadow itself can’t do what the object does.

That’s what the law is. That’s what the sacrifices are. God genuinely accepted them, but they could never make the worshiper permanently right with God. They could never change the heart that kept producing the sin.

The people living under the shadow were being trained year after year, sacrifice after sacrifice: recognize what the real sacrifice will be. Every animal that died on that altar was God teaching Israel the same lesson: you need this, and this isn’t enough.

The system didn’t fail. It did what it was designed to do. It created a desire for something better.

The Priesthood and the Danger of Casual Access

What they needed was a mediator, and that’s the priesthood. God’s presence fills the tabernacle. The sacrificial system is now in place. Someone has to stand between God and the people and carry the blood past the curtain on behalf of a nation. So God chose the last person we probably would have expected: the guy who just made a calf. He chose Aaron and his sons, sinful men, to stand in his presence on behalf of the nation.

God gave them what they needed to wear to be set apart. He put a plate on Aaron’s forehead to show that he doesn’t belong to himself; he’s in God’s service. He had a robe with bells on, just in case he died. If you don’t hear bells, you know the sacrifice didn’t work. He had a breastplate with 12 stones, one for each of the tribes of Israel. When he walked into God’s presence, he carried the entire nation with him. He goes in so they don’t have to.

That is what a mediator does. He stands where the people cannot stand, and he carries them with him. We don’t have time to work through all of the details this morning, but they are worth reading and understanding.

After all of this preparation, the priest still has to offer a sin offering for himself before he can offer anything else for the people. The man standing between God and Israel is a sinner, and he needs grace before he can even administer the sacrifice for the people. So every time he serves, the preparation begins over again. The priesthood is God’s provision for the gap, but it’s also a reminder of how wide this gap is. If the mediator himself needs atonement, what does that tell you about the distance between a holy God and the people he’s mediating for?

God tells them what this is for. In Leviticus 9:6:

“This is the thing which Yahweh has commanded you to do, so that the glory of Yahweh may appear to you.”

The sacrifices weren’t just a list. They were a condition of seeing God’s glory. Obey the system he built and he will show up. Then, jumping down to verses 23–24:

“And Moses and Aaron went into the tent of meeting, then came out and blessed the people, and the glory of Yahweh appeared to all the people. Then fire came out from before Yahweh and consumed the burnt offering and the portions of fat on the altar. And all the people saw it, shouted, and fell on their faces.”

Fire from the presence of God consuming the offering is God accepting the offering. God saw the blood, accepted the substitute, and demonstrated that the way was open. In that moment, the system was functioning exactly as God designed it.

But it didn’t take long for us to screw it up. Leviticus 10, starting in verse 1:

“Then Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, took their respective fire pans and put fire in them. Then they placed incense on it and offered strange fire before Yahweh, which he had not commanded them. And fire came out from the presence of Yahweh and consumed them, and they died before Yahweh. Then Moses said to Aaron, ‘It is what Yahweh spoke, saying, “By those who come near me, I will be treated as holy, and before all the people, I will be glorified.”’ So Aaron kept silent.”

The same fire in chapter 9—the fire from God’s presence—consumed the offering and the people shouted for joy. Then in chapter 10, the fire from God’s presence consumed the priests and everyone went silent. Same God, same holiness, same fire. The only difference was how God was approached.

One chapter earlier, the entire nation was on its face in worship because God had accepted their offering. Now two of Aaron’s sons are dead, burned up in the tabernacle, because they decided the details of God’s instructions were flexible. The exact nature of their violation is debated. The text may hint they were drunk, because immediately after their death God gives Aaron a direct command about not drinking wine or strong drink when entering the tent of meeting. The specific violation matters less than the principle: “By those who come near me I will be treated as holy.” God defines the terms of nearness, and Aaron’s sons decided those terms were optional.

The fire that had just accepted the sacrifice turned on the men who thought they could improvise. Aaron kept silent. His two oldest sons are dead on the ground, and he doesn’t say a word. He was grieving, but he knew Moses was right. God’s holiness is not negotiable, not even for a father’s grief. The silence is heavier than any words Aaron could have said at that moment. He stood there in his priestly garments, the blood of his ordination still probably on his ear and his thumb and his toe, and he had nothing to say. Because what do you say when you know God is just and your sons were wrong?

You stand there in silence. We approach God every day, every week. We pray, we sing, we take communion. Christ secured that access for us. Nadab and Abihu are permanent reminders that access and casualness aren’t the same thing. The God we approach through Christ is the same God whose fire consumed unauthorized worship. His holiness has not changed.

What changed is the sacrifice. A better priest offered a better sacrifice, and our access is permanent. But the God on the other side of that access is still the God whose fire fell in Leviticus 10. We come boldly, as Hebrews tells us, but we must come on his terms. We must come honoring his holiness.

The Day of Atonement and the Two Goats

The next lesson for the kids is on the atonement. The atonement sacrifice happens once a year, every year. These daily sacrifices are in the individual lesson: one person, one offering, one act of forgiveness. I’ve often wondered how long the line is for that. If it’s like Disneyland, you’re waiting for an hour. There’s no FastPass.

But sin doesn’t just affect the sinner. It defiles the priests who handle it. It contaminates the tabernacle where God dwells. So the Day of Atonement addressed what the daily sacrifices couldn’t. Once a year, the high priest entered the room no one else could enter, carrying blood into the immediate presence of God.

In Leviticus 16:2, Yahweh says to Moses:

“Tell your brother Aaron that he shall not enter at any time into the holy place inside the veil before the mercy seat which is on the ark, so that he will not die. For I will appear in the cloud over the mercy seat.”

This first instruction is a warning: don’t come in whenever you want. You will die. The Holy of Holies is not an empty room. This is where God’s presence is. It’s unmediated by blood, and it will kill you.

On this day, the high priest enters alone, burning incense so the smoke covers the mercy seat before he can even look in that direction. Without this incense, he will die. He brings blood first from a bull for himself, because the high priest still has to be atoned for before he can atone for anyone else. Then he slaughters a goat for the people and brings its blood inside the veil. Inside the ark sit the stone tablets, the law that every person in the camp has broken. Above the ark is the mercy seat, where God appears. The law underneath, God’s presence above, and the high priest sprinkles blood on the mercy seat and in front of it. Leviticus 16:14 tells us he sprinkles this blood seven times. That blood is the only thing standing between a nation of sinners and the holy judgment their sin deserves. It satisfies God’s judgment so that his mercy can reach his people.

There are two goats brought for the people’s sin offering. The first goat is killed. Its blood goes inside the veil: payment for sin. But the second goat isn’t killed. In Leviticus 16:21–22:

“Then Aaron shall lay both of his hands on the head of the live goat and confess over it all the iniquities of the sons of Israel and all their transgressions in regard to all their sins. And he shall lay them on the head of the goat and send it out into the wilderness by the hand of a man ready to do this. And the goat shall bear on itself all their iniquities to an isolated land. And he shall send out the goat in the wilderness.”

This is both hands, a full confession, a full transfer. The text uses, once again, the three different words for sin that we saw earlier: iniquities, transgressions, and sins. All of it laid on this goat and sent into the wilderness. The first goat dies as a payment, and the second goat signifies a removal. These truths are what God does with sin. He pays for it, and he carries it away.

Eric read from Isaiah 53 on Friday, and it uses this same language. Isaiah 53:4–6 says:

“Surely our griefs he himself bore, and our sorrows he carried away. Yet we ourselves esteemed him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted. But he was pierced through for our transgressions. He was crushed for our iniquities. The chastening for our well-being fell upon him, and by his scourging we are healed. All of us like sheep have gone astray. Each of us has turned to his own way. But Yahweh has caused the iniquity of us all to fall on him.”

Both of those goats point to Christ. The goat that died is Christ paying the penalty for our sins. The goat sent away is Christ removing our sins as far as the east is from the west. Two goats on the Day of Atonement, because it takes two pictures to show what one Savior accomplished in a single act.

And once every year, that’s what Leviticus 16:34 says: “This is a perpetual statute.” If this had solved the problem, once would have been enough. But every year the high priest goes back behind the curtain. Every year the blood is sprinkled. Every year God is teaching Israel, “This isn’t the final answer.” In those sacrifices there is a reminder of sins year by year, for it is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins.

Hebrews 10:11 tells us, “And every priest stands daily ministering and offering time after time the same sacrifices, which can never take away sins. But he, having offered one sacrifice for sins for all time, sat down at the right hand of God… For by one offering he has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified.” Every priest stands. You stand when your work is not complete. Christ sat down at the right hand of the Father. He offered one sacrifice for sins for all time, and he sat down.

The distance between those two realities is the distance Christ crossed, and we cannot fathom that distance. Scott talked Friday night about Matthew 27. In verse 51, when Jesus died, the veil of the sanctuary was torn from top to bottom. The veil existed for one reason: to keep people out. Not even the high priest could pass except once a year, covered in blood, hidden behind incense, and scared to death. For 1,500 years this curtain was saying, “You can’t come in here.” No animal sacrifice could remove it. The veil stayed because the sacrifice that could tear it had not yet been offered. When Christ died, God tore it from top to bottom. The sin that required the separation was dealt with permanently.

Again in Hebrews 10:19: “Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is through his flesh, and since we have a great high priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled clean from every evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water.” We are not trembling high priests. We’re not sitting in clouds of incense when we walk in here on a Sunday or when we sit in our quiet time. The blood of Jesus did what the blood of bulls and goats could never do. So draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith. Our nearness to God cost the Son everything. And now he sits. The job is complete.

Be Holy: What the System Was Pointing Toward

There’s one last lesson in the curriculum, and it’s in Leviticus 19. After everything we’ve walked through this morning—after the presence, after the sacrifices, after the priesthood, after the Day of Atonement—God says one more thing to his people. Leviticus 19:2: “Speak to all the congregation of the sons of Israel and say to them, ‘You shall be holy, for I, Yahweh your God, am holy.’”

The reason for holiness isn’t self-improvement. It’s to reflect God. God’s people look like God, not like the surrounding nations, not like whatever feels comfortable. “You shall be holy because I, Yahweh your God, am holy.” When we walked through holiness in the attribute series a few weeks ago, we looked at how Charnock described it. He called holiness the beauty of the Godhead. Power is God’s hands. Omniscience his eyes. Mercy his heart. Holiness is his beauty. Every other attribute is glorious, but holiness is what makes every other attribute beautiful. Power without holiness is tyranny. Sovereignty is oppression. Even love without holiness is sentimentality. Holiness is the purity that makes everything else about God trustworthy. And God says, “Be like that.”

The commands in Leviticus 19 touch everything: honor your parents, no idols, leave grain in your field for the poor and the foreigner, don’t steal, don’t lie, don’t take advantage of the deaf, don’t put a stumbling block before the blind, don’t pervert justice for anyone, rich or poor, don’t hate your brother in your heart. Holiness is more than don’t steal or cheat on your wife. The commands in this chapter push into territory that most people would consider optional. Leave part of your harvest in the field for people who can’t afford food. Keep your body clear of markings for the sake of being set apart as God’s holy people. Pay your workers on time. Don’t hold a grudge. Holiness touches your wallet, your body, your calendar, the conversations you have when the other person isn’t even in the room. Holiness is comprehensive. It’s relentless. It leaves no corner of your life untouched. And God says, “Be holy.”

Leviticus 19:18 says, “You shall not take vengeance nor bear any grudge against the sons of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself. I am Yahweh.” Jesus called this the second-greatest commandment, and this is the first time you see it. Some of these commandments carry into the New Testament, and some were fulfilled in Christ or belong specifically to Israel’s identity as a nation set apart from its neighbors. But the principle beneath every single one of these commands carries across every page of Scripture. God’s people are different, not because we’re better, but because God’s people belong to a holy God. And belonging to him changes what you do with every part of your life.

Here’s where this section serves our main point this morning: nobody kept it. Nobody looks at Leviticus 19 and goes, “I did every single one of those perfectly.” Not fully, not consistently, certainly not for long. The call to holiness reveals the same thing the sacrifices revealed, the same thing the annual Day of Atonement revealed: there’s a distance. Even after God provides the presence, the sacrifices, the priests, and the atonement, the people still can’t close this gap on their own. God gave them the command, “Be holy.” He gave them detailed instructions for what holiness looks like, and they couldn’t do it. The law is perfect. We’re not. And the system teaches that we need him.

That’s the whole point. Leviticus 19 is the last piece of evidence in the case that God has been building for us this morning. His presence is real, and still the people can’t be what God calls them to be. We need more than a system. We need the one the system was pointing to. And on this side of Calvary, what God commanded from the outside he now accomplishes from the inside. As Ezekiel 36:27 says, “I will put my Spirit within you and cause you to walk in my statutes.” Christian, God gives you the power to be holy. It is a new power that you have when you commit your life to Christ.

So that’s what these five lessons talk about. They talk about God’s presence. They talk about sacrifice. They talk about the need for a mediator and an atonement and holiness. Five layers of the same truth. God drew near to a sinful people, and he built an entire system so that they could survive his nearness. Every piece of that system worked, and every piece of that system was insufficient. The sacrifices had to be repeated. The priests needed their own atonement before they could offer. The call to holiness exposed what everybody already knew: we couldn’t do it.

And the system did exactly what it was designed to do. It taught a people, and it teaches us, what we need. Then Christ came. The presence that filled the tabernacle became flesh and dwelt among us. The sacrifice that had to be repeated was offered once for all time. The priest who needed his own atonement was replaced by one who knew no sin. The Day of Atonement that came back every year was fulfilled in a single afternoon. The holiness that no one could keep was credited to everyone who belongs to him.

The depth of our gratitude for what Christ accomplished is directly tied to how well we understand what he replaced. That’s why we spend time in Leviticus. That’s why we have Leviticus, so we can truly understand what Christ’s death replaced.

Closing Prayer

Lord God, many of us have heard the truth that you went to the cross to die for our sins our entire lives. We grew up either in the church or in a society that just assumes that. And yet we grew up 1,500 years or 3,500 years removed from these words on the page. This sacrificial system that was so significant and so difficult and so vivid—what it means to see a life taken for our sins—are words on a page.

Lord, help these words on the page to penetrate our hearts, and help us to be lost in, to be consumed by, the truth of what your death on the cross meant. So this morning, as we celebrate your resurrection—because your resurrection shows that not only did you defeat sin, but you defeated death, that the work was finished—Lord, as we celebrate that, help this day not to be about family, but to be about you. Lord, we love you. Amen.