Exodus 29: Sacrifice, Holiness, and Hope
Exodus 29: Sacrifice, Holiness, and Hope
"I will dwell among the people of Israel and will be their God." (Exodus 29:45)
Exodus 29 addresses the ordination of priests—a rite through which Aaron is crowned and upon whose turban is affixed a plate inscribed קֹדֶשׁ לַיהוָה, "Holy to the LORD" (v. 6). This inscription bears a dual valence. Godward, it declares: "This man is consecrated unto You." Humanward, it proclaims: "Through this man, the providence of God descends upon you." The anointing oil seals this twofold vocation.
Yet the altar is sanctified by a different grammar. For seven days, a bull must be offered upon it as a sin offering (vv. 36–37). The priest is hallowed by oil; the altar, by blood. The means diverge, but the common denominator remains singular: sacrifice. The Hebrew כָּפַר (kipper) signifies not merely "to cleanse from sin" but, more primordially, "to cover." God does not avert His gaze from our transgressions; He shrouds them beneath the weight of sacrifice. Paul discerned in this logic of covering the architecture of justification: "It was credited to him as righteousness (λογίζομαι)" (Rom 4:3). The Levitical cultus is the prototype of the Gospel.
Verses 42–43 disclose the telos of all this ritual: "There I will meet with you... and the place shall be consecrated by My glory." The locus of divine encounter is the site of sacrifice. The hour in which God's glory is unveiled is the hour in which sacrifice transpires. Absent sacrifice, there is neither meeting nor glory.
It follows, then, that the promise of verse 45 transcends mere spatial presence. This is God's covenant to sacrifice eternally in the midst of Israel. The terminus of sacrifice is not humanity. Nor is it a reciprocal compact between Creator and creature. The terminus of sacrifice is nothing other than the inexorable execution of divine will. Because God has determined to sacrifice, that sacrifice admits no interruption. Hence, sacrifice is grace—and for all creatures, it is hope.
What, then, of the human side? Whether one answers the call or flees from it, God's summons knows no boundary. This is what we might term the "holy ambivalence of Scripture": God comes to Daniel, who responds, "Here I am"; God pursues Saul, who persecutes. Viewed from the heights, all human beings amount to little more than specks—indistinguishable, measuring themselves against one another in endless futility. And yet, God resolves to dwell precisely among those specks.
Our failures cannot annul that promise. A certain bitterness lingers—this we cannot deny. But even that bitterness is already enfolded within God's sacrifice.