Living Sacrifice

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.” – Romans 12:1-2

If you think about it, Paul speaks in oxymoron here: by all Old Testament standards, a living thing only becomes a sacrifice once it stops living. We just read in 2 Chronicles about Hezekiah supplying 1,000 bulls and 7,000 sheep for the Passover offering: sacrifices were a big deal, and Paul knew his readers were intimately familiar with the concept. The animals used were of economic value and practical use. They were cared for with feed, pasture lands, and physical labor. To take something like that, and kill it without receiving any personal gain, was a sacrifice. It was an active decision that cost you something.

Jesus is our sacrifice, once and for all. But Paul makes an appeal here. He says, do you want to know what worship means? Do you want to know how we respond to such a gift of mercy and grace? We look at what it took to make an animal sacrifice, and we live that out with our bodies instead. We feed and rest our bodies, souls and minds as caring for something that belongs to God. We use our bodies to think and act, to do and create, in a way that is set apart for God and acceptable to him. The Old Testament sacrifices were teaching us all along, not only that we need Christ for atonement, but about how it is we are called and enabled to live ever after. 

In a way, this type of sacrifice is infinitely harder than a one-time act. As someone once said, “the problem with a living sacrifice is that it keeps climbing off the altar.” That’s how I feel sometimes, like I’m dragging myself back up, again, up and down. That’s how these days feel in general. As home dynamics, work demands, school phases, and personal routines fluctuate in this strange new world we’re ever-settling into, there’s a lot of up and down. Some days I do better than others, but I figure that’s why Paul uses the present tense here. It’s an ongoing thing, our worship. It takes time, our transformation. Sometimes it happens too slowly to be perceived, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening, even, or even especially, in the world we now find ourselves.

Uzziah's Pride

“But when he was strong, he grew proud, to his destruction.” – 2 Chronicles 26:16

Uzziah starts off sounding like a hero in some young adult novel. Crowned king at sixteen, he becomes a victorious warrior, demolishing enemy walls, garnering tribute, leading an impressively large, well-equipped, and fit army. He becomes a master builder, erecting numerous towers and outfitting them with innovative machines. He is hailed a lover of the soil, cutting cisterns and cultivating herds and vines. He seeks good spiritual mentors and sets himself to fear God. And he gains fame, which the author points out repeatedly: “and his fame spread even to the border of Egypt, for he became very strong… And his fame spread far…” This guy is a Judean rock star. 

But in the end all this detail, far more than we got in the parallel account in 2 Kings 15 (in which Uzziah goes by his other name, Azariah), is a warning. The source of Uzziah’s success is God (verse 5, “God made him prosper”; verse 15, “for he was marvelously helped”). But Uzziah eventually becomes proud, insisting on burning incense in the temple himself, despite knowing only the Levites are ordained to do so. When the priests dare to oppose him, rather than repenting, he becomes angry, and in that moment is touched with leprosy, remaining a leper until his death. Archaeologists have since found his tombstone, upon which is written in Hebrew, “The bones of Uzziah, king of Judah. Open not.”

This was a man who from a young age had everything going for him. But something about success made him forget who he was in the temple of God, made him overestimate his authority and reject criticism. His life became an encapsulation of Proverbs 16:18, “Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” Do I forget that the source of any success I may have is God? Do I care too much about position or influence? How do I react to criticism? Strength is a blessing but also a danger, for it so easily leads to pride, and there is no clearer warning of that than the life of Uzziah.

The Valley Of Blessing

“We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.” – 2 Chronicles 20:12

During our first Sunday streaming service, we sang “God, I look to you / I won’t be overwhelmed,” and I can’t help but think that song could have come straight out of 2 Chronicles 20. In this chapter, Jehoshaphat receives ill tidings of destruction coming from over the sea: the Moabites, Ammonites, and Meunites are advancing in battle. Jehoshaphat is afraid. He gathers the people and prays: he speaks of God’s power, his past deeds, and his promises. He lays out their trouble, asks God to help, admits their own powerlessness, and ends with this line: “we do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”

How terrible, how fearful, to be brought as a leader, a person of relative wealth and resources, to the point where one would say those words. Yet here we are, facing an invisible foe capable of murdering thousands and pulverizing dreams all in the span of a season, and none of us really know what to do. None of us know how long this will last. There is no clear end-point, and we are only beginning to comprehend the fall-out. But like Jehoshaphat, the basic response of our hearts can be this simple. And God answers. He speaks through Jahaziel to say, don’t be afraid; this is my battle. Go down to the valley. Find your enemies, stand firm and see God’s salvation.

And so they head towards the valley, but they go in an interesting way. Jehoshaphat and the people decide together to send before their army people singing worship songs, and we even have recorded the lyrics of their song: “Give thanks to the Lord, for his steadfast love endures forever.” The moment they begin to sing, God begins to destroy their enemies (verse 22). By the time they actually arrive at the valley, all they see are enemies already dead, and so much spoil that it took them three days to carry it all away. On the fourth day, they assemble in that valley and name it The Valley of Blessing. I imagine what it would have felt like, standing in that place where destruction had been replaced with provision, slaughter with blessing, fear with joy. For that is how they left, “returning to Jerusalem with joy,” and the awe of God came upon all nearby kingdoms such that no more war was made. “The realm of Jehoshaphat was quiet, for his God gave him rest all around.” 

The ending seems almost too good to be true, but these stories are not hopeless fairy tales. They are real things that happened, and the God that Jehoshaphat prayed to is the very same God that we speak to now. May Jehoshaphat's words be ours, and may our battles of fear turn into valleys of joy.

A Whole Heart

“But the high places were not taken out of Israel. Nevertheless, the heart of Asa was wholly true all his days.” – 2 Chronicles 15:17

“For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to give strong support to those whose heart is blameless toward him.” – 2 Chronicles 16:9

One Mystery Science video I watched recently with the kids talked about how we get metals from the earth: it’s not as simple as digging them up. Most metals exist in such close combination with other elements that these mineral “ores” must undergo a process called “smelting” to be extracted. Smelting involves heat. It takes temperatures thousands of degrees hotter than an oven to separate the metal from its ore. 

With each successive king in Judah’s history, it’s easy to ask the same question our kids used to ask about everyone: “is he good or bad?” But we often find it’s not that straightforward. Kings may tear down some altars but not others. They may govern wisely but marry foolishly. They may start off well but make a poor decision, as we see with King Asa, who renewed a covenant to follow God wholeheartedly, but then turned to seek the help of the Syrians rather than God when difficulty came. The same word is used for “wholly” and “blameless” in these two verses: shalem, related to the familiar shalom. God desires that our hearts are shalem towards him, are blameless and true in the sense of having no other ultimate love, no other ultimate object of worship and desire and help. 

There is a shift between the end of chapter fifteen and the beginning of chapter sixteen, and it is caused by one thing: war. It is external trial that brings out the condition of King Asa’s heart. “I have refined you,” says God, “but not as silver; I have tried you in the furnace of affliction” (Isaiah 48:10). I picture my heart strewn with ores: mixed motives, desires, and loves running like veins through the geography of my mind and soul. This pandemic is like one big smelting furnace, an act of extractive metallurgy upon the core of my being. Every challenge and trial makes me ask, what am I really looking to for help? What do I really believe is the point of my day? What is my calling really about in this time? God is searching endlessly for one precious thing, more precious than the purest gold: a heart that is whole towards him. To that heart, he says, I will give strong support. That is a promise worth holding on to. “In this you rejoice,” writes Peter, “though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ” (1 Peter 1:6-7).

Finding A Sacred Space

“And listen to the pleas of your servant and of your people Israel, when they pray toward this place.” – 2 Chronicles 6:21

One of the losses we bear during this time are spaces. We’ve lost classrooms and operating rooms, sanctuaries and stores. Some of those spaces can be recreated: we converted a bedroom into an office space where Dave can do video visits with patients privately. We divided our dining table into four sections with tape so the kids have desks for their schoolwork. It’s temporary, but it works.

Solomon’s temple was temporary, too. Jewish historian Josephus notes, “the temple was burnt four hundred and seventy years, six months, and ten days after it was built.” But there is still something profound and moving in reading about its construction and dedication, about the attention to detail that was given, about the moment when God’s glory filled it like a cloud in the midst of which no one could stand. It’s a reminder that God choosing to dwell with us is not something to be taken for granted, and that there is beauty and holiness to be found in the places he inhabits.

God dwells within us, now. We don’t have to go to a particular place to find him. But I think there’s still something significant about having a sacred space. It’s a declaration of intention. It’s an illustration of holiness. It’s a reminder of God’s constancy. Having a space we have either created or found, that we can set aside for God, that we can return to, that we can fill with the marks or memories of His presence, is even more important now that we’ve lost the ability to gather in churches and retreat centers. On a neighborhood walk the other day, I found a corner by a wall behind some bushes, where probably no one ever went. I sat down in the overgrown grass, and suddenly all I could see was sky and foliage, and it was like I could breathe again for a moment, like I could see in that little space the bigness of God, so much outside of my daily struggles. When I’m indoors, I go to a corner by a window with a rug and some pillows and a few of my favorite things. I keep a candle there I can light when I’m alone to say, “God, here I am. Here you are.” 

Where are your spaces? This is a good time to create or find one, to let the boundaries we now live in bring renewed creativity and intentionality when it comes to finding a sacred space. 

The Chronicler's Story

“Adam, Seth, Enosh.” – 1 Chronicles 1:1

“No story lives unless someone wants to listen. The stories we love best do live in us forever.” – J.K. Rowling

Let’s face it: the first nine chapters of 1 Chronicles are tough reading. For us modern-day readers, not the most gripping of hooks. We have short attention spans. We aren’t related to these people. We’ve just finished reading through the Samuel’s and the Kings’ and aren’t anticipating much fresh material here. But in fact, it’s exactly by reading Chronicles (1 and 2 Chronicles were originally one book) synoptically with Samuel and Kings that we see what is so amazing about it. 

Chronicles is the retelling of a story. Why would anyone retell a story? Because stories tell us who we are, why we are here, and what our hope is for the future. And right then, the Israelites needed a new story. The monarchy and the temple of their people had been destroyed. They had been taken into exile. Now, they had returned and rebuilt their temple, but everything had been upset. They were reduced in strength and numbers, occupying only a fraction of the land they had before, subject to foreign overlords, living in the midst of a mixed and sometimes antagonistic population. They had lost their context, their purpose, and their hope.

And so, the Chronicler spins a tale. The story doesn’t start in chapter 10. It starts right here from the first word, Adam, with which he says: I am going to tell you a story of names, a story about who you are, and it starts from the very beginning, not with Abraham, but with Adam. God is telling through you his story for all mankind, for all creation. The Chronicler then traces names forward through history, and we can see what he emphasizes by noticing which people have all their children named; which people are mentioned last (usually indicating they are more important); which family lines are traced not just linearly but horizontally. He highlights Noah, then Abraham, then Jacob. Despite the fact that most of the later narrative will focus on Judah’s tribe, the Chronicler highlights all twelve tribes here in the genealogy, again emphasizing their collective identity as the people of God.

But he does spend more time on David’s line, and also on Aaron: and in these two threads we see the themes of this new story, the kingship and the temple. This story paints, in a more positive light than Samuel and Kings, a picture of David as messianic king, and Aaron and his descendants as priests, and the people in worship and song, all of it the expression of God’s covenant with David. We will see that he leaves out some of the negative stories, and adds new ones related to these themes, all of it to say: you are not lost. Things seem different. This is not how you pictured it. But God has made a covenant with you. It has been lived out in this king and this temple, and one day it will be lived out in the ultimate King and Temple and become a story that lives forever. As the ESV Study Bible puts it, “The Chronicler wrote to commend a positive prescription for the spiritual and social renewal of his community.” This is a story we all need to hear.

King Ahaz

“When King Ahaz went to Damascus to meet Tiglath-pileser king of Assyria, he saw the altar that was at Damascus. And King Ahaz sent to Uriah the priest a model of the altar, and its pattern, exact in all its details.” - 2 Kings 16:10

King Ahaz had a lot going for him. In fact, he’s not unlike someone we would picture meeting in the Bay Area: he was young (reigning in his twenties and thirties), loved innovation and technology (introduced the Babylonian sundial to Jerusalem, 2 Kings 20:11), had access to the latest information (prophets Isaiah and Micah spoke during his reign), and was interested in spirituality (involved himself in sacred spaces and practices). But he had no real relationship with God, and this despite benefiting from God’s deliverance in battle (2 Kings 16:5), having the influence of a godly father (2 Kings 15:34), and being of the line of David.

Instead, he emulates those around him. When the tide turns against him in battle, he looks not to God for help, but makes an alliance with the Assyrian king, just as he sees the Syrians and Israelites doing. But far from it being an equal alliance, Ahaz declares himself their servant, literally slave (2 Kings 16:17), giving the Assyrians treasures from the temple and palace. And when he sees the Assyrian altar in Damascus, he decides to make one exactly like it for himself.

Assyrian altars were quite different from Jewish ones: they were smaller, and had peculiar and unmistakable ornamentation. As one article put it, “Careful instructions would be needed for workmen who had never seen the sort of object which they were required to produce.” In a distorted echo of Exodus 38, Ahaz now puts himself in the place of God, directing the priest in constructing an idolatrous altar which he puts in the place of God’s bronze altar in the temple, and upon which he makes burnt, grain, drink, and peace offerings. It’s a strange and somewhat hideous amalgam of religions: he is in Solomon’s temple, making offerings from Levitical law, but on an Assyrian altar, to Damascene gods. 2 Chronicles 28:23 tells us something of his motivations: “For he… said, ‘Because the gods of the kings of Syria helped them, I will sacrifice to them that they may help me.’” 

The next sentence in 2 Chronicles is compelling: “But they were the ruin of him and of all Israel.” God is not one in a line of many. We cannot keep the convenient or traditional parts of our faith and mix them in with what seems to be working for everyone else. This is not to say we can’t make our faith culturally relevant, but we must always be going back to God’s word as we bring forward His truths to our current day.

Ahaz had auspicious beginnings: but he ended up being one of the worst kings, going on to make idolatrous altars “in every city of Judah” (2 Chronicles 28:25). Perhaps, more than anything else, his story is a warning to us: of how incredibly easy it can be to be so caught up by what others are doing, to trust so much in worldly patterns of success, to care so much about what someone in power thinks of us, that we lose a right view of God in our lives.

Ahithophel

“When Ahithophel saw that his counsel was not followed, he saddled his donkey and went off home to his own city. He set his house in order and hanged himself.” – 2 Samuel 17:23

The extremes in Ahithophel’s life are a bit alarming. He goes from being esteemed by both David and Absalom as a god (“Now in those days the counsel that Ahithophel gave was as if one consulted the word of God,” 2 Samuel 16:23), to committing suicide once Absalom took Hushai’s advice over his. The truth was, Hushai’s advice was (intentionally) bad, and it would lead to Absalom’s death. Ahithophel had not lost his touch; he had it more than ever. Why go hang himself?

We don’t know for sure. Perhaps it was simply having idolized his high status and career success so much that it was unbearable to feel passed over. Ahithophel was David’s most valued counselor, and was specifically requested by Absalom at the start of his conspiracy (2 Samuel 15:12, 2 Chronicles 27:33): that is a kind of power that would have gone to anyone’s head. Sometimes the best way to identify idols in our lives is to see what affects us most when we don’t have it. How would I react if I were to lose my mind, my physical health, my ability to work, my status as a parent, my wealth? Would I be sad or completely destroyed, without any remaining sense of meaning or identity, unable to go on? 

But we also know that Ahithophel was the father of Eliam (2 Samuel 23:34), who in turn was the father of Bathsheba (2 Samuel 11:3)—a fact David was full-aware of, as it was the very first thing he learned about her. Eliam was one of the mighty men of David, as was Ahithophel’s son-in-law, Uriah. David had betrayed his closest counselor by violating his granddaughter and killing his son-in-law, a man who fought together with his own son. Perhaps this was why Ahithophel betrays David in turn by joining Absalom, proposes killing David himself (2 Samuel 17:2), and takes his life when he finds the conspiracy will likely fail. God had forgiven David, but perhaps Ahithophel had not. Are there ways we hold on to bitterness and a vengeful desire for our own justice in our lives?

There are faint echoes here of Judas, another man who betrayed a King only to hang himself. And just as we see the sovereignty of God in that situation, we see it here. When Ahithophel advises Absalom to publicly violate his father’s concubines, God uses that counsel to fulfill his word (“he shall lie with your wives in the sight of this sun,” 2 Samuel 14:11). But God also foils Ahithophel’s counsel to achieve his purposes (“the Lord ordained to defeat the good counsel of Ahithophel,” 2 Samuel 17:14). If anything, we learn that human thinking, even from the sagest man in the kingdom, is not enough. God’s power, his ways and thoughts, are higher than ours. Wisdom does not guarantee a righteous end. Ahithophel’s great-grandson Solomon would also be known for his wisdom and have to figure this truth out for himself. 

The Veil And The Cherubim

“He drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life.” – Genesis 3:24

“And you shall make a veil of blue and purple and scarlet yarns and fine twined linen. It shall be made with cherubim skillfully worked into it… and bring the ark of the testimony in there within the veil.” – Exodus 26:31, 33b

“And behold, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” – Matthew 27:51

I’ve always had a visual memory. I can remember what Dave or I were wearing at most important moments in our lives. For example, the first time we met in person after months of writing letters, I recall Dave striding towards me clad in a yellow visor, white logo T-shirt, khaki shorts, ankle socks and worn sneakers. Back then, my East Coast sensibilities were somewhat appalled at his casual attire (after hours of deliberation, I had chosen for myself pressed khaki pants and a V-neck black top)—I now realize he was pretty much dressed like everyone in California dresses, but either way, the image is stuck in my head.

In this section of Exodus, God speaks through images crafted in wood, metal, and fabric. Almond blossoms, loops of blue, clasps of bronze—in every detail, he is showing us something about Himself, about how he relates with us. He is telling us a story.

Take the veil. One of its colors was purple. Apparently it took twelve thousand murex snails (carnivorous tropical sea snails) to yield only 1.4 grams of pure violet dye, which was why the color was associated with both divinity and royalty. Worked into the veil are cherubim, which remind us of the first time they are mentioned in Genesis, guarding the tree of life, separating sinful man from the holy presence of God in the garden. Here too, the cherubim separate us from the Most Holy Place, the presence of God at the mercy seat above the ark of testimony, a place only one person could enter only one day a year after elaborate preparations (more on that in Leviticus). When Solomon built the temple, he also worked cherubim into the veil (2 Chronicles 3:14).

Fast-forward to Jesus’ death: the very first thing that happens after he breathes his last is a completely startling event. Behold! Matthew says. The curtain is torn in two! Something happens to an inanimate object in a completely unrelated location! The word for curtain used here (katapetasma) can refer to three different hangings in the tabernacle and temple, but the syntax points to the inner veil. There is the image: the cherubim, torn apart, a way made through. This, spelled out in fabric and dye, is what the death of Jesus meant: a way made for us back into Eden, into the holy presence of God.

Even more fascinating is how the author of Hebrews describes it: “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” (Hebrews 10:19-20)—the curtain is Jesus’ flesh. A way was made only through a breaking apart. The flesh that was perfect, divine, and royal—just as the curtain was made of the finest twined linen and the rarest of dyes—that flesh was torn just as the curtain was.

I imagine the image of those cherubim in the veil, both a masterpiece of art and a familiar fixture, and I imagine seeing them destroyed. I imagine the unbelievability of a placed shrouded in unattainable mystery for hundreds and hundreds of years, at the threat of death, now laid open. That is a story I would tell and an image I would remember.