Monday, Oct. 21
Leviticus 1:1 – 3:17 Read it here
Much of Leviticus is dedicated to discussion of offerings or other parts of the ritual law. While some parts of the law touch on rules for living that we might find interesting, the rules regarding offerings are far removed from our own experience.
We live in a much more complex and much wealthier society than these rules were written for, so we don’t relate to them in the same way. For the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, their animals were creatures they raised personally and who would in time use for the basic necessities of life: their bodies would become food to live on and their skin would become clothing to wear or tents for shelter. The grain would be used to make bread, with family members often taking part in every step of the process from planting to harvesting to baking.
We live in a world where very few of us are directly involved in producing food or clothing or shelter—and if we are, we are likely to take part in only one small part of the process. We use symbolic IOUs to receive our pay for our part of the effort and pay others for theirs. Even those have become less tangible over the years, going from direct barter agreements to coins to paper currency to numbers recorded on a computer somewhere.
When we make our offerings to God they seem disconnected from the work we do each day. That wasn’t the case for the Israelites. Every offering represented meals that would not be eaten, or nights that would be a bit colder without the leather or wool that was being sacrificed. The cost of the sacrifice wasn’t reflected in a bank balance, but in real daily living.
Giving, then, was about giving up control and trusting God that one’s needs would still be met.
Unlike our modern approach of supporting the church, the focus was on the giving, not on what would be accomplished by the resources. The sacrifice WAS the purpose, not just a means to an end.
All or part of the sacrifice was simply burned. It’s described as an aroma pleasing to God—and that’s understandable to anyone who’s ever been outside a barbecue restaurant. But the burned sacrifice wasn’t used for anything we would consider practical—it didn’t feed the hungry or house the homeless or even replace broken plumbing. It did, though, both force and prove trust in God.
The only part of the sacrificial system that feels at all familiar to us is that many of the sacrifices, at least in part, went to support the priests who ministered at the altar.
Even there, though, there wasn’t the kind of transactional pay-for-services we tend to expect from our modern view of clergy and church staff. The priests weren’t being compensated for teaching or preaching or managing or whatever expectations we have now. In a sense, the priests WERE a sacrifice—the community giving up the labor of a significant portion of its population as a gift to God. The priests, who under the sacrificial rules were men in prime physical condition, were not available for tending flocks or planting or harvesting or any of the other needs of the community. In supporting them, the community showed its trust that God would make up for their lost labor.
All too often we turn to passages about giving when it’s time to have a finance campaign or raise money for the church.
As you read through all of the teachings on sacrifice, keep in mind how deliberately the system avoids descending into mere practicality—it’s always about something greater.