Before the face of God

Before the face of God

There are moments when you enter a place and at once notice your bearing change. You speak more softly, you walk differently, you watch what you do — not because someone tells you, but because the place itself reminds you that you are not there casually. Leviticus 16 begins with such an awareness, but far deeper. The chapter opens after the death of Nadab and Abihu, Aaron’s two sons who died before the face of the LORD. And then God tells Moses that Aaron may not enter the sanctuary behind the veil at just any moment.

That is a piercing way to begin Yom Kippur. It begins not with our need to have a special experience, but with the holiness of God. There is nearness, but that nearness is not self-evident. God truly dwells among His people, but His presence is not something we control. Aaron may draw near — but he draws near in God’s way, at God’s time, with what God has appointed. Perhaps that is one of the first things this day teaches us again: we receive access, we do not grasp it.

First the high priest himself

Before Aaron can do anything for the people, atonement must first be made for himself and his house. That is striking. The man who will soon enter for all Israel does not stand above the people as though he needs no atonement himself. He comes not as one who only solves the sins of others; he comes as a man who himself depends on grace. That is why this chapter is such a potent remedy against religious pride. Whoever stands before the face of God cannot remain standing there as the judge of everyone around him.

That fits how we may live this season of teshuvah. In self-examination it is easy to see mostly what another does wrong — my spouse, my children, my congregation, my leaders. But whoever enters the sanctuary does not begin with another’s faults. The first question is not: how do I come across, is my form in order? The first question is: how do I stand before the face of God — what does He see?

The sanctuary must be cleansed

Then something happens we easily miss. Atonement is made not only for people; the sanctuary too is cleansed because of the uncleannesses and transgressions of Israel. The people’s sin does not stay neatly outside the place where God dwells. What happens in Israel’s life touches the holy space. This shows how seriously the Torah takes sin: it is not only a broken rule with guilt trailing behind it. It damages community, it defiles, it disturbs the place where God wants to dwell among His people.

That makes this day larger than looking back on a few wrong choices. The question also becomes: what has my way of living done to the space between God and me, between me and my neighbour, in my family, in the community? Where has something been defiled because I clung to pride, bitterness, injustice or self-assertion? Atonement is then not merely the closing of a file; it is that community is restored and what became unclean is cleansed.

Two goats

Then two goats are set before the LORD, and lots are cast over both. One is offered to the LORD; the other stays alive and is later sent into the wilderness, to Azazel. Over that second one Aaron lays both his hands; he confesses the iniquities, transgressions and sins of Israel, and then the goat is led away to an uninhabited land. The image is powerful: sin is not only named, it is carried away.

That matters, for we can easily live as though forgiveness only means God saying: “I will not speak of it for now.” But here the people’s guilt is symbolically carried away, out of the camp, out of sight. The people watch that goat leave, further and further, until it is gone. There is something freeing in it: what has been confessed need not be nursed, as though by clinging to our guilt we show more reverence. We may not excuse sin — but neither must we keep holding it as a possession after God has taken it away.

Once a year

On this one day the high priest enters the most holy place — not casually, not without blood, but in obedience to the way God Himself has given. There is a tension in it that keeps sounding through all of Scripture: God wants to dwell among His people, and at the same time He is holy. Man longs for nearness, but sin stands in the way of that nearness. So atonement is no incidental of the covenant; it is necessary when a holy God dwells among people. And note the heart of the day: “before the LORD you shall be clean” (16:30). Becoming clean happens not at a distance, but precisely before Him.

Yeshua, the High Priest

And precisely here Yeshua takes on his deep meaning for us. The letter to the Hebrews later reaches back extensively to this day and to the work of the high priest — not because Leviticus 16 has become worthless, but precisely because the pattern shows something: there is a high priest, there is blood, there is access to God’s presence, there is atonement for the people. I do not want to flatten Leviticus 16 into a sum you fill in one-to-one; it is not a code, it is a way God gave that points somewhere.

Hebrews says that Yeshua entered the holy place not with the blood of goats and calves, but by His own blood, once, having obtained eternal redemption. And then the line that stands right on this day’s title: He entered not a sanctuary made with hands, but heaven itself, now to appear “in the presence of God for us.” Where Aaron went in once a year and came out again, He enters and stays. Yeshua does not come to say sin is not so bad after all; He carries it. He does not make God’s holiness smaller so we can enter more easily; He opens the way by truly dealing with sin. So grace is not the opposite of God’s holiness — grace is so precious precisely because God is holy.

You shall afflict yourselves

At the end of Leviticus 16 Israel is commanded to afflict themselves and do no work: a sabbath of complete rest. That is a remarkable combination — affliction and rest. We could easily make such a day a project: try harder, be more earnest, use more words, offer more proof that we truly repent. But the Torah sets rest beside the affliction. You do not have to save yourself. You do not have to produce the atonement. The work is done for you. You are called to humble yourself, to turn, to become honest before God — but not to be the blood yourself, the high priest yourself, the way to God yourself. Perhaps that is the hardest thing about this day: to grow still and receive that atonement is finally God’s work.

When fasting becomes a form

And then comes Isaiah 58. There we meet people who fast, who seek God, who are seriously busy with religious forms — they even ask why God does not see their fasting: “Why have we fasted, and you see it not?” That sounds like a devoted people. But God exposes what they no longer see: on the day they fast they seek their own interest, drive their labourers, quarrel and strike with a wicked fist. The outward form says: we humble ourselves before God; their daily life says something else. That is perhaps the sharpest warning to read precisely around this day. Form matters — the Torah gives forms, times, sabbaths, fast days; what we do with our bodies helps us remember and receive. But a form no longer connected to God’s purpose can even become a place where we hide from the truth. You can fast and still oppress someone. You can pray and still refuse to forgive. You can humble yourself before God while treating someone beside you as though he were worth nothing.

Is this not the fast I choose?

God then names the fast He desires: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the yokes, to let the oppressed go free, to share bread with the hungry, to bring the poor into your house, to clothe the naked. That does not make fasting unimportant — it gives fasting direction. The empty stomach must say something about the heart. If I willingly leave food untouched but stay unmoved by one who truly hungers, I have performed the form without receiving the message. If I humble myself before God but keep exalting myself above my neighbour, my body is bowed while my heart stayed upright. And then come the beautiful promises: your light shall break forth as the dawn, your healing shall spring up quickly, the LORD will answer when you call, and you shall be like a watered garden. Do you see the movement? Not: do enough good works and earn God’s presence. But: when the heart truly returns, it becomes visible that His life begins to flow through us. A watered garden does not produce the water itself — it receives it, and therefore it bears fruit.

Restore the sabbath too

Isaiah 58 ends strikingly with the sabbath: not only care for the poor, justice and fasting, but also learning to find delight in what God has hallowed. That matters, for we can veer off on two sides. On one side, form without heart: keeping sabbath, fasting, celebrating feasts, and meanwhile missing God’s purpose. On the other: “as long as it is about the heart, the forms do not matter.” Isaiah chooses neither. Justice and sabbath. Mercy and obedience. Inward affliction and outward form. The form may carry the message, but never replace it; and when the form is truly received from the Source, it brings us back to Him.

When the Son of Man comes

Then we come to Matthew 25. Yeshua speaks of the coming of the Son of Man in His glory; all nations are gathered before Him and a separation takes place, as a shepherd separates sheep from goats. That image alone does not let us lean back comfortably: this day speaks of atonement, but atonement does not make judgment unreal. The same Scripture that says guilt is carried away also says our life comes open before God. And then Yeshua names something remarkable: “I was hungry and you gave me food; I was a stranger and you took me in; I was naked and you clothed me; I was sick, in prison, and you came to me.” The righteous respond in surprise: when did we see you like that? And He answers that what they did for one of the least, they did for Him. That fits almost uncomfortably close to Isaiah 58: bread for the hungry, taking in the stranger, clothing the naked, not forgetting the vulnerable. As though haftarah and gospel together say: do you want to know whether the affliction before God reached your heart? Then look at the one who can give you nothing back.

The person we did not see

The most striking thing in Matthew 25 is perhaps not even what was or was not done, but that both groups are surprised. “When did we see you?” One group served Yeshua without constantly being aware that each act was a great spiritual achievement; the other missed Him without realising they missed Him. That should make us careful. Perhaps one of the greatest dangers of religion is that we can be very busy seeking God and meanwhile walk past the one in whom He asks love of us. We can think deeply about atonement while someone beside us waits for forgiveness; speak about the high priest entering the sanctuary while we ourselves will not enter the room where a conflict must be talked through; fast before God while someone around us hungers for attention.

Not saved by our works

Here we must stay careful. Yeshua does not say people saved themselves by a collection of social achievements — that would reverse the whole movement of Leviticus 16. In Leviticus the atonement comes first from God: the high priest receives his task, the blood is brought, the guilt is carried away, the people receive cleansing. But received atonement leaves traces. That is the same pattern Scripture shows again and again: fruit is not the root of grace, but it does show what the root has brought forth. A tree does not become a good tree by anxiously tying fruit to its branches; if the root lives and receives water, fruit appears of itself. So Matthew 25 does not stand against Leviticus 16 — it asks what the atonement has brought forth in our life.

Seizing the other by the throat

Last week, in Ha’azinu together with Matthew 18, we read of the servant forgiven an enormous debt who then seized his fellow servant by the throat. There we saw the same principle: received grace wants to be passed on. Yom Kippur goes deeper still. We stand before God as people who need atonement; no one enters the sanctuary on the ground of his own superiority, no one can say: I am here because I am better than the one beside me. And if we then come outside and treat another as though that person deserves no grace, we may not yet have understood what happened inside. The question of this day is therefore not only: which sins must I confess? But also: whom must I begin to treat differently because I myself live from atonement?

A day of truth

Perhaps that is finally what this day does: it takes away the places behind which we hide. Before God we need not pretend. Aaron does not come without blood. Isaiah lets no religious form stand that hides injustice. Yeshua lets no piety stand that makes the hungry, the stranger or the vulnerable invisible. Everything comes into the light — and yet that light is not meant to drive us away. The God who brings our sin to light is the same God who has given a way of atonement. That matters, for self-examination without atonement easily ends in despair, and atonement without self-examination becomes cheap. Scripture holds the two together: we may become honest because there is a way back.

Before the face of God

Perhaps we can therefore sum up this day with the image with which Leviticus 16 began: standing before the face of God. There much falls away — our reputation, our comparison with others, our religious achievements, our excuses; but also the thought that we must keep carrying our guilt after God has carried it away. Before His face we discover that He is holy, that our sin truly damages something, that atonement is needed — and that He Himself has opened the way. And whoever has been there does not come back exactly the same. For when we have received that God sees us, we begin to see the one we first walked past. When we know our guilt has been carried away, we may at last be able to stop holding on to another’s guilt.

Then this day becomes not a day on which we try to convince God how deep our repentance is, but a day on which we open ourselves to Him again. Where must something be confessed? Where must something be let go? To whom do I still hold a debt that I have long used as a weapon? Who has become invisible in my life? The high priest goes in. The sin is confessed. The goat disappears into the distance. The people rest. Isaiah cries: loose the yoke, give bread, restore what is broken. And Yeshua says: what you did for the least, you did for me. So holiness, atonement and mercy come together — not because we found the way to God, but because He opened a way, and then teaches us to live as people who have received from that atonement.