Scripture
The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, “Command Aaron and his sons: This is the rule of the burnt offering. The burnt offering itself shall remain on the hearth upon the altar all night until the morning, while the fire on the altar shall be kept burning. The priest shall put on his linen vestments after putting on his linen undergarments next to his body, and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar. Then he shall take off his vestments and put on other garments and carry the ashes out to a clean place outside the camp. The fire on the altar shall be kept burning; it shall not go out. Every morning the priest shall add wood to it, lay out the burnt offering on it, and turn into smoke the fat pieces of the offerings of well-being. A perpetual fire shall be kept burning on the altar; it shall not go out.
Sermon
We don’t hear a lot from Leviticus around Union Presbyterian Church. I have never before preached from the Book of Leviticus. Ever. I have also never before preached a sermon which, quite by accident, happens to have the title of a song by the Bangles, which became a kind of soundtrack for me, writing this sermon.
Close your eyes, give me your hand, darling
Do you feel my heart beating?
Do you understand? Do you feel the same?
Am I only dreaming?
Is this burning an eternal flame?
Hear the longing of the singer—wanting to know what is happening in the relationship. Wanting to know where they stand, which is a sentiment very relevant to the passage I’ve just shared with you.
So, why haven’t I preached from Leviticus before today? The biggest reason for that has to do with the Revised Common Lectionary. The Lectionary is a three-year table of readings, offering at least four readings for each Sunday, sometimes more. It attempts to give Christian congregations the opportunity to hear a rich variety of scripture passages from both the Hebrew Scriptures and New Testament. This means that, over three years, the preacher chooses from more than 4400 passages from the Bible. Guess how many of those passages are from Leviticus? Two. Two out of more than 4400. The one we’re reading today is not one of them.
That’s one reason I haven’t preached from Leviticus. Another reason is the subject matter. The tribe of Levi, for which Leviticus is named, was designated by God to be the priests and scholars of God’s covenant people. Therefore, Leviticus is a book that concerns itself with the intricacies of worship in the Temple in Jerusalem. This includes the duties of the priests, in great detail.
There’s a third reason, probably. In American culture, we mostly hear Leviticus invoked in fights over LGBTQ+ people. A handful of verses are taken out of context and used by people who wouldn’t dream of sacrificing a ram for to atone for their sins. Nevertheless, they use these verses to argue why LGBTQ+ people shouldn’t be able to marry, shouldn’t have equal protection under the law—in some cases, why we should be killed. This has probably dampened my enthusiasm for the book. But, if read carefully, Leviticus provides us with the life-giving theology underpinning the ancient rituals it describes. It is worth our time, and today’s passage is an excellent example of that worthiness.
My first introduction to the idea of an eternal flame was a photograph in Life magazine I came across when I was very young. It was an entire issue devoted to the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. There I saw an image of Jacqueline Kennedy next to the eternal flame at the president’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery. Even as a young child, I had an inkling of what it was about—it was about remembering.
The remembering associated with the eternal flame is connected to one of theologian Marcus Borg’s great themes of the Hebrew Scriptures: Sin and Atonement. Sin isn’t mentioned in the verses I’ve just read. But the burnt offering here is the sin-offering—it’s explained in the earlier verses of this chapter.
A sermon on Leviticus is almost inevitably going to become a conversation about sin, because that is the essential function of the Temple: the people sin, and then they go to the Temple to make offerings that will restore their relationship with God. Sin is about missing the mark, about breaking trust, whether with God or with one another. How do we repair trust when it has been broken? What can be done to restore relationships that have been torn apart by lies? The sin described in this chapter is the sin of deceit. It is a very particular kind of deceit—lying to a neighbor about a (financial) pledge, or by robbery, or by defrauding them of money or property. Finding something they have lost and keeping it! This is a lie that steals.
All lies steal, of course. Lies steal trust. They steal intimacy. They even steal our own sense of what is right, as, the more we lie, the more we muddle our own moral compass by convincing ourselves that the lie is not that big a deal, it is a small thing, it is little and “white.”
And because this lie steals all these things and more, the first step required in repairing the tear is to give back more than was taken—to return what was stolen, plus another one fifth of its value, a 20% increase. This is as brilliant as it is wise. This is more than a gesture: this takes a vital step towards rebuilding real trust. We want to rebuild trust with those we have harmed, to restore their confidence in the unknown that is our future relationship. The return of surplus is our beginning. We begin with abundance, with a bountiful offering.
In other words, the prescribed path back, is to be more like God. God, who is slow to anger, and positively overflowing with steadfast love and mercy (Exodus 34:6). God, whose steadfast love is from everlasting to everlasting, whose love for us burns like, and is symbolized by, an eternal flame. By making the offering, we are invited to recognize that we can trust in God’s love and mercy.
To God’s ancient covenant people traveling in the wilderness, God’s steadfast love was on perpetual display: God appeared to the people as a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar of fire by night. In our passage Leviticus describes a perpetual fire on the altar to be used in the burnt offering. “The fire on the altar shall be kept burning; it shall not go out” (v. 12).
I imagine it’s a relatively simple thing to have an eternal flame in the Year of our Lord 2023. You get a permit, and work it out with the gas company, and it pretty much takes care of itself. That’s not true for this ancient eternal flame. This flame required the vigilance of the Temple priests to keep it burning, by day and by night, so that this reminder of God’s love and mercy, God’s willingness to forgive, God’s burning desire that we remain in relationship with God, should never sputter and fail. An eternal flame is about remembering.
This weekend Joan and I had a gig at the Garland Gallery, singing together, which we love to do. And because of that, I have a second song that became a part of my sermon-writing soundtrack, a song about being on the road, which means, the singer is constantly leaving home and returning. The song is called “Leaving,” and it’s by the Indigo Girls.
But if I weren’t leaving you
I don’t know what I would do
But the more I go, the less I know
will the fire still burn on my return?
Keep the path lit on the only road I know?
Honey, all I know to do is go.
Sin is a little like that, too. A leaving, and then a returning. But the path is lit. The fire is still burning on our return. And how like God, to remind us by a fire we tend together, reminding us of the steadfast love of the Lord. God tends it, and God’s children tend it—in the ancient Temple, by the work of the priests. For us, by life in community, always ready and joyful to receive us back. We tend the fire together. And there it burns, ever watchful, ever ready to receive the offerings of our hearts, and we are greeted by the love of the God in which we can place our trust, in leaving and returning, by day and by night.
Thanks be to God. Amen.