Last night my daughter snuggled into my shoulder as I read to her the ending of Book 3 of the Wingfeather Saga. My eyes grew wet as I spoke to her of a father’s mighty act of heroism and strength for the hour – giving of his complete self for the sake of his children. The scene moved me again, as I silently lifted up a prayer, that I too may give myself always to my children with such devotion, in both the mundane and the extraordinary.
Of course this impacted me. I am a father who loves, and fails, and loves again. I have been a giver of love to my children, I have tried to protect them, to provide for them, to lead them, nurture them, and ultimately do what is best for them both for time and eternity. And at the same time, I have been a recipient of an even far greater love from my Father in heaven. I have been lavished with a love that never fails, that never leads astray, that always disciplines me appropriately. If I know how to give good gifts to my children as a fallen creature, how much more the heavenly Father gives to me. It is true. And so, in both my reception of that perfect fatherly love, and my bumbling attempts to mediate it to my children, I stand in the immense weight of love that a father has for their child.
And yet, this week my mind has wrestled with another reality. Not a competing one, but a sobering one, nonetheless. And I say my mind, but really the weight is not intellectual, the weight lies on my heart. There are fathers who have not always put themselves on the altar for their children, but have in fact put their children on the altar for God.
A joyous day had arisen. After seven days of preparation a family of priests are about to finally minister to the people. They are a new humanity, operating in a tent that calls them back to Eden. The approach back to the presence of God needed sacrifice, but it also needed a priesthood. The glory of God is pleased to fall on the place; the whole congregation of Israel is overwhelmed by his presence. This is what the priests were commissioned for. Ministering before this glory.
And yet, presumably after a very short time, the story of this family is to change forever. Aaron, an old man, who never thought he’d see the things he’s seen, never mind have the privilege of standing in the role of High Priest to the Most High God, has the joy of serving alongside his children. But they do not respect that calling. They offer up unauthorised worship, and the fire that devoured the sacrifice and brought the glorious life-giving presence of God to the people, now devours them, bringing death to the sanctuary.
What cry must have arisen from Aaron’s heart? What anguish would have compelled him to scream? And yet, Moses interjects, saying on behalf of the Lord,
“Among those who are near me I will be sanctified, and before all the people I will be glorified.”
And then the story records: “And Aaron held his peace”. He’s just watched his two sons be struck down. His pain must be unbearable. And yet, he remains quiet.
The sands of time shift some, and Mount Moriah comes into view. A man, old and weary from decades of pilgrimage, listens carefully to the voice of God. He had assumed the days of struggle were past. God’s promise had been fulfilled, he had his son, he was ready to depart from this earth a contented man. And yet, here he stands, hearing the unbelievable. Through many dangers, toils and snares, he has learned to respond immediately in faith to God. He doesn’t hesitate in offering himself to him, saying, “here I am.” But what tears must have choked his voice when the next morning his beloved son calls out, “My father!” and he again must answer, “here I am”, even as he prepares his heart to kill his precious child. He has faith that God will somehow work this out for good. Maybe resurrection, maybe some type of intervention, who knows. But it doesn’t change the reality. His son will end up on the altar. And so, with hands that tremble in the shimmering of the dawn, he carefully binds his son, and lifts him up onto the altar, no doubt wishing he was in his place instead.
What is it about these men? We rightly praise fathers who would sacrifice themselves for their children, and yet here stand the Friend of God, and the High Priest who has intimate access to God’s presence, ready to accept the deaths of their children without a word of protest. What fell incantation has stayed their emotions?
It is no incantation at all. It is no false belief. These men approached closer to God than any other. They experienced his life-giving power more than any other. They felt the weight of his glory more than any other. And they beheld his fierce holiness more than any other.
There is a wonderful comfort in knowing that God is a father, and knows what it is like to enjoy that relationship, to comfort us in the pain of child-rearing or the grief of child-loss. But so often our tendency is to imagine God as so like us, rather than to recall that he is not like us, we are like him. And that being true, the certain graces that we experience in this life, like well-done parenthood, are because we are made in his image. But that does not mean there is not more to him than is in us. We are like him, he is not like us.
There is a holiness, a separation, a distinctiveness about God. He is other, and we are so prone to forget that. What did the word that Moses spoke to Aaron mean?
“Aaron, we’re at chapter 10. Praise God that he calls us to draw near. Praise God that he has provided sacrifices to come and enjoy his presence. Praise God that he is forming a priesthood so that the whole assembly of Israel can have access to his life. Praise the Lord we can be near him!
But don’t for one minute forget that the same fire that accepts is the fire that devours. Don’t get lazy in your discernment and think that just because you can approach him by these means, that he is a man just like us. Don’t be mistaken. He wants you to draw near. And in his presence is the fullness of life, and pleasures at his right hand forevermore. But Aaron… he is holy. He is separate. His is a terrible glory. It makes you jump for joy, and fall on your face in terror. It gives the anxious heart peace, and the proud heart fear. It bids trembling feet to come, and warns strong feet to stay away. His glory is fearsome. It is more. He may dwell with us, and may condescend to us to draw us near. But do not mistake his immanence for a lack of transcendence. He is more.“
Abraham and Aaron were intimately acquainted with the Lord, the one whom Jacob called “the Fear of Isaac”. They had known enough of his power and his glory to have an appropriate fear of his holiness. They also had seen enough to know that he was good, and faithful. Their silence before him as their children died/almost died, was not passiveness. It was not fatalism or blind obedience to an obscure deity. They may have trembled and shook at some of the consequences of following this God. But at the end of the day, his holiness and his goodness, his terror and his joy, his life and death, his transcendence and immanence, his commands and his faithfulness, all made him stand apart. In his eyes, he was seen as holy. As other. And in light of that; in light of the incomprehensible reality of the fiery goodness of God, they surrendered their limited knowledge, and their wavering wills, into the hands of the One who stood apart from them as holy.
The children of Israel did not approach so close. They did not know him so intimately. They held back their children from the Promised land, with outright defiance. Not that God was looking for child sacrifice. Lest this post seem to advocate that, let the view be put to death now. But he was looking for hearts that held him as holy above everything they held precious.
He didn’t change when he walked on this earth. Even more immanent. No less holy.
“Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.”
– Matthew 10:37
A year on from the cusp of moving to South Asia, we have another decision to make soon; what city to move to after our time of language learning in the capital comes to an end. A year ago I wrote of the cost and benefit for our children on this journey and a series of posts on the responses of people when we told them we were moving abroad, one of which was on fear of risk. It’s a very present reality for us right now. I want to be like Esben Wingfeather, I want to give myself for my kids. But when I kneel before a holy God, and draw closer and closer to him, my heart grows wider with his love, and my hands tremble at the cost of what it means to follow him. I find it much harder to give my children for God.
I can be certain that however my Father leads, that it will be good. So good. And he will remain faithful. So faithful. But before the blazing glory of his holiness, of his otherness, and in the infinite wisdom of his plans, it may be that there are painful choices to be made.
We often find it much easier to offer ourselves on the altar, than to offer those closest to us. May the Lord give us all a burning revelation of his holiness, that would create in us a willing heart of sacrifice. And as we stand before the blazing heat of his glory, may we remember that all that passes through the heat in obedience will be purified. And he shall be with us in the flames.
Imitators of Those 
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