A Holy Kindness: Meeting God in the Book of Leviticus
“I will walk among you; I will be your God, and you will be my people.” - Leviticus 26:12
Leviticus isn’t often the book we associate with God’s kindness—but it should be.
Leviticus can feel deeply unfamiliar to the modern Christian. Its emphasis on animal sacrifices, priestly garments, purity laws, and ritual procedures can seem arbitrary or even off-putting—strange practices rooted in a world far removed from our own. For those formed by New Testament language and categories, Leviticus may appear legalistic, overly concerned with external behaviors, and disconnected from grace. It's tempting, then, to pass over it in favor of books that feel more immediately relevant, more emotionally resonant, or more clearly Christ-centered.
But to skip over Leviticus is to miss something essential—not only about Israel’s story, but about God’s character. Beneath the surface of detailed instruction lies a profound theological vision: a holy God who does not withdraw from sinful people, but who lovingly creates a way to dwell among them. The sacrificial system, the priesthood, and the purity codes are not divine busywork; they are expressions of God's mercy in the context of His holiness. Through these rituals, God made it possible for His presence to remain in the midst of His people without consuming them.
Far from being irrelevant, Leviticus provides the theological foundation for understanding Christ’s atoning work, the seriousness of sin, the beauty of sacred space, and the costly nature of reconciliation. There is far more happening in these pages than meets the eye—and to engage them with humility and attentiveness is to recover a deeper understanding of the gospel, one rooted not only in forgiveness, but in God's unwavering desire to dwell with His people.
To read Leviticus well is to read it through the lens of love, not merely law. While its content may appear legalistic on the surface, the structure of Leviticus is actually an invitation into relationship—a covenantal life marked by closeness with God. In the Hebrew imagination, these were not abstract rules to obey in order to earn favor; they were tangible ways to respond to a God who had already chosen to dwell among His people. The rituals, sacrifices, and purity practices were not burdens meant to restrict life, but rhythms that made intimacy with a holy God possible.
Where neighboring nations performed sacrifices to appease the anger of unpredictable and often cruel gods, Israel’s sacrificial system functioned differently. God had already accepted His people. He had already brought them out of Egypt and called them His own. Leviticus does not begin with a demand for sacrifice, but with the reality of God’s presence and the gracious offer to maintain it. When the people inevitably failed or drifted, God provided a path—not to re-earn acceptance, but to re-enter communion. That distinction is crucial: the sacrifices were not a way to gain love, but a way to return to it.
This vision of participation extended to all levels of society. Leviticus makes it clear that no one was excluded from worship on the basis of wealth or social status. The sacrificial system included scaled offerings: a bull for the wealthy, a goat for the middle class, and turtledoves or pigeons for the poor (Lev. 1:3–17; Lev. 5:7). Each was fully acceptable to God. The value of the offering did not determine the depth of the worship. Holiness was not tied to economic status; what mattered was the posture of the heart and the desire to draw near.
The beauty of this is echoed in the gospel. Mary, the mother of Jesus, offers a pair of birds at the temple after His birth (Luke 2:24, Lev. 12:8), signaling her family's humble status. Her sacrifice mirrors that of the woman Jesus later honors for giving only two small coins. In both cases, the offering is small by human standards but honored by God as wholehearted participation in worship. Leviticus sets the precedent for this grace-filled economy of presence—one where everyone is invited, and no one is disqualified.
Even the concept of purity—so often misunderstood—was not about exclusion, but about proximity. In the ancient world, purity wasn’t a measure of moral value but of readiness to approach the sacred. God’s presence was holy, and to be near it required intentional preparation. The purity laws gave the people a framework for recognizing what could draw them close or keep them at a distance. And just as importantly, they provided a path back. God never left His people in a state of impurity without offering a way to be restored.
Through these practices, God was forming a people who could live with Him in their midst. The goal was never performance, but presence. Every offering, every act of purification, every moment of priestly mediation was a reminder that God desired to dwell with His people—and made a way for them to dwell with Him.
For the modern reader, returning to Leviticus is not merely an exercise in historical curiosity or theological endurance—it is an invitation to rediscover the foundations of the gospel. This book, often dismissed as ancient and inaccessible, is in fact essential for understanding who God is, how He relates to His people, and what it means to live in His presence.
Leviticus reveals a God who is both holy and merciful—a God who does not overlook sin but who lovingly makes a way for restoration. Its rituals and sacrifices prepare the imagination for the ultimate sacrifice of Christ, who becomes both our High Priest and our spotless offering. Hebrews tells us that Jesus entered the Most Holy Place not with the blood of bulls or goats, but with His own blood, securing eternal redemption (Heb. 9:12). What Leviticus lays the groundwork for, the cross brings to fulfillment.
But even beyond pointing to Christ’s atoning work, Leviticus shapes our understanding of discipleship. It teaches us that worship involves the whole person. It reminds us that access to God is a gift, not a right. And it calls us to live lives marked by reverence, purity, and gratitude for a God who invites us into relationship.
In a cultural moment that often reduces faith to feelings or convenience, Leviticus reminds us that the presence of God is weighty, costly, and beautiful. It challenges us to take seriously the holiness of God—not as something to fearfully avoid, but as something that, by grace, we are welcomed into.
To read Leviticus is to recover a deeper awe for the God who draws near. It is to see, with fresh eyes, the mercy that makes His nearness possible. And it is to recognize that the same holy kindness that filled the tabernacle in the wilderness now fills the hearts of those who are in Christ.
As you read Leviticus—and I truly hope you do—ask the Lord to reveal His heart to you through these pages. Don’t read it through the lens of rigid law, but through the lens of a holy God who loves His people so deeply that He draws near to them and calls them to be holy like Him.
