Lessons from Leviticus: Atonement and Hope

In the Daily Offices, we spent about nine weeks with Genesis. Exodus took about five weeks. Leviticus? Ten days and we are done.

The preacher at Sunday's Evensong addressed this well; she said that Leviticus is probably not anyone's favorite book, and even her Hebrew Study Bible slights it. It is no wonder that the Daily Office gives it scant notice. I understand the reasoning of the framers of the Lectionary; a month or two of the fine points of the Law, read orally in public worship, would be daunting.

As I said recently, everything in Scripture is part of the Story, and none of it can be entirely overlooked without peril. I would compare Leviticus to the Appendices of Lord of the Rings. Many Tolkien fans read the book as far as Sam's return to Bag End and his family, and stop there. They turn the page and see the annals, the tale of years, page after page of family trees from the Shire, calendars, linguistic notes; they move on. A longtime fan who had read the book (but not the appendices) numerous times over several decades once argued with me that the story of Arwen and Aragorn in the movie version was constructed out of whole cloth, right up to her arrival with Elrond at Minas Tirith near the end. "No, it's not," I insisted, and finally dug out my book and showed her the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen in Appendix A.

The story contained in LOTR is comprehensible without the appendices, but much is contained therein that underlies the larger story, and there are moments of surpassing beauty among the mass of detail that reward the reader. So it is with Leviticus in its relation to the Torah, the remainder of the Old Testament, and the larger story of God's mighty acts continued in the New Testament and beyond, into church history, theology, and tradition. It contains much that underlies the rest of the story, and its own moments of surpassing beauty.

The first part of the book is, in essence, a Liturgical Customary. Precisely how were the various offerings to be made? Such details are as much the delight of some as the details of Sindarin are to a certain portion of Tolkien fandom. For a modern equivalent, visit the Customary of one of the great parishes of our denomination, the Church of the Advent in Boston. It outlines their customary procedures for Sundays and major feasts, the duties of each liturgical minister, the work of the Altar Guild, as well as the procedures for extraordinary services such as those of Holy Week. I am adding it to the list in the sidebar of the Music Box as one of the "places I like on the Net" because it is a delight to see how "it ought to be done," at least in that place. But as with much of Leviticus, it is enough to make one's eyes glaze, if such details are not one's interest:
The Customary of the Church of the Advent

"And the LORD called unto Moses, and spake unto him out of the tabernacle of the congregation, saying . . ." (Lev. 1:1)

The lasting significance of these opening chapters of Leviticus is that all of it, down to the most minute details of liturgical observance, is the direct word of God. It is not the work of a committee, or an amalgam of what we want as a congregation or larger polity. The clergy and the Levites, right up to Aaron himself, had no say in its composition.

Liturgy -- that is, the manner in which we worship the LORD -- is not something we create. It is a gift. We accept what has come to us through the tradition, or we ought to. One of the evil fruits of the 1960's and 1970's was the wholesale rejection of tradition, in liturgy as in all other areas. Liturgical "creativity" is dangerous, as Nadab and Abihu learned in Chapter Ten. More generally, the priesthood is dangerous, and the Levitical ministry as well. There are times when it all goes horribly wrong, as it did for Aaron and his family in this chapter. But the gifts and call of God are without repentance. There is no turning back from the responsibilities of the priesthood, or the Levitical ministry, including that of church organists and choirmasters, and for that matter choristers, deacons, acolytes, members of the Altar Guild, and others connected with the sacred mysteries. No matter how bad it gets, we must go on.

This is not to say that the liturgy is fixed for all time. It cannot be static if it is to continue as a living thing. The children of Israel had to learn this when the whole system outlined so carefully in Leviticus was swept away:

"Your adversaries roared in your holy place;
they set up their banners as tokens of victory.
They were like men coming up with axes to a grove of trees;
they broke down all your carved work with hatchets and hammers.
They set fire to your holy place;
they defiled the dwelling-place of your Name
and razed it to the ground.
They said to themselves, 'Let us destroy them altogether.'
They burned down all the meeting-places of God in the land." (Psalm 74:4-7)

In Psalm 137, we hear the Levitical musicians. They tried to lay aside their ministry and calling, because they could not see how to continue in it:

"As for our harps, we hung them up
on the trees in the midst of that land.
For those who led us away captive asked us for a song,
and our oppressors called for mirth:
'Sing us one of the songs of Zion.'
How shall we sing the LORD's song
upon an alien soil?"

Yet, they learned that the LORD's song could -- and must -- continue even "by the waters of Babylon," without the proper ministry of priests, without sacrifices and offerings, without any external support. It was there, in exile, that Judaism became something entirely new, a world religion implicitly (and, in Christ, explicitly) open to everyone, of every time and place. By necessity, their manner of worship changed, and this eventually changed their manner of belief. One can see this in the latter part of Isaiah (chapter 40 and onward), and some of the other Prophets.

Liturgy is a living thing, an ancient and gnarled tree. It is not static, but neither is it uprooted by every transient wind of secular culture. As soon as it becomes "free" -- that is, cut off from its roots in the tradition -- it degenerates into the gathered community's worship of itself and its own creativity. Examples abound, then and now. "The people gathered themselves together unto Aaron, and said unto him, Up, make us gods, which shall go before us; for as for this Moses . . . we wot not what is become of him." (Exodus 32:1)

In the Anglican tradition, and even more so in the Roman Catholic and Orthodox traditions, changes to the liturgy are not entered into lightly, and are never left to the whim of a local priest, congregation, or diocesan bishop, though (in our tradition) he or she is the arbiter, within the limits circumscribed by the mind of the wider church as delineated in the Prayerbook. Unfortunately, I have never heard of an Episcopal clergyperson being disciplined for departure from authorized liturgical forms, and sometimes the bishops are the worst offenders. I wish we were more careful of this.

From the Preface to the First Book of Common Prayer (BCP p. 867):

"[in case of question about liturgical practice] the parties that so doubt, or diversely take any thing, shall always resort to the Bishop of the Diocese, who by his discretion shall take order for the quieting and appeasing of the same; so that the same order be not contrary to any thing contained in this book." [my emphasis]

------

The great theme of Leviticus is Atonement. It is introduced in the first verses; it underlies all that follows.

"And he shall put his hand upon the head of the burnt offering; and it shall be accepted for him to make atonement for him." (Lev. 1:4)

The sermon at Evensong mentioned Atonement, as did our Anthem. It is a large word.

I continue to nibble away at the Hebrew tongue. More and more, I am drawn to the "large" words; it seems that Hebrew is filled with them: words that contain realms of thought and idea and passion in concentrated form -- words like "Shalom." To say that it means "peace" is insufficient; it is much more. "Kippur," or "Atonement," is such a word. So is "Kodesh," "Holy." The concordance indicates that both of these words appear more frequently in Leviticus than in any other book of the Old Testament.

From Wikipedia s.v. "Atonement in Christianity" (and other sources, including the Evensong sermon):
"The word 'atonement' was invented in the sixteenth century by William Tyndale who recognized that there was not a direct English translation of the biblical Hebraic concept [Kippur]. The word is composed of two parts 'at' and 'onement' in order to reflect the dual aspect of Christ's sacrifice: the remission of sin and reconciliation of man to God. Tyndale's concept overcomes the limitations of the word 'reconciliation' whilst incorporating aspects of propitiation and forgiveness."

-------

Not much happens in Leviticus. There are only two bits of narrative: Chapter Ten (already mentioned), and 24:10-23, which is the first example of putting the Law into practice. Both of these are ugly stories. If I were writing the book, I would leave them out; when I read the book, they are parts that I would prefer to skip. But there they are, and they (especially Chapter Ten) are the keys to the book. [Edit: see the first comment]

The story of Nadab and Abihu in Chapter Ten and what ensues, especially 10:10-11 ("And that ye may put difference between holy and unholy, and between clean and unclean. . . ."), is the gate into the remainder of Leviticus, wherein these matters are expounded at length. Hidden among the dietary laws, additional details of liturgical customary, a calendar of the liturgical year (Chapter 23), the regulations concerning leprosy, an equivalent in Chapter 18 to the 1662 Prayerbook's "Table of Kindred and Affinity", and many other matters are passages whose place in the Story was not to be fully comprehensible until much later. Among my favorites:

Chapter 12: concerning what in our tradition would be called the "Churching of Women," wherein the Father makes specific provision for his own Son and his Mother, thousands of years in the future, along with all others who share their poverty: "And if she be not able to bring a lamb, then she shall bring two turtles, or two young pigeons. . . ." (12:8, and St. Luke 2:22-39)

Chapter 16: the Customary for the Day of Atonement, filled with foreshadowings of the Cross, and the basis underlying much of the Epistle to the Hebrews. This chapter is perhaps the most important of the book. The two narrative passages of Leviticus both point to the need for it, and in one way or another all of the various "statutes and judgments and laws" (26:46) work at this problem. God says "Ye shall be holy, for I the LORD your God am holy" (19:2), and our Lord reiterates it in the Sermon on the Mount: "Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect" (St. Matt. 5:48), but we are unable to live up to it. Leviticus leaves us the question: how then can we be saved?

"Now when they heard this, they were pricked in their heart, and said unto Peter and to the rest of the apostles, Men and brethren, what shall we do? Then Peter said unto them, Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost." (Acts 2:37-38)

Chapter 25: the Seventh Year, and the Year of Jubilee, which have provided eschatological hope to oppressed and suffering people through all of time. It is significant that the trumpet -- a foreshadowing of what St. Paul describes in I Thess. 4:16-18 -- is blown to "proclaim liberty throughout all the land" (25:10) on the Day of Atonement, for our only hope, our only deliverance, is through the Cross. O Crux, ave, spes unica. It is significant also that these provision of the Law were disregarded more than they were observed; they remain a hope yet to be fulfilled. "There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God" (Hebr. 4:9). Charles Wesley wrote a good hymn about this: "Blow ye the trumpet, blow!"

----

This brings us to the Eucharist, the sign of Hope and the ultimate End of the Sabbath, that which every earthly Sabbath and Jubilee foreshadows. Last Sunday morning, we sang Edgar Bainton's magnificent setting of Rev. 21:1-4, appointed as the Second Lesson of the Eucharist:

"And I saw a new heaven, and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

It is the peculiar province of Music to remind us of these things, and the higher province still of Baptism and the Blessed Sacrament to be sign and seal of these things. Tolkien again -- from the Appendices, no less -- "Behold! we are not bound to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory." The day will come when at last we shall be the "holy city, new Jerusalem," even now through our tears and struggles and faltering efforts being "prepared as a bride adorned for her husband."