God of the Fallen

Yesterday, we talked about how God has made provision for the poor in prescribing second sacrifices for those who cannot afford the first. But what about the God who provides for...the fallen?

This is where it gets interesting.

We know that Satan is a fallen angel, and we're fairly familiar with the few scenes in the Bible where God and Satan go at it. There's Job, of course, where God hands His faithful servant over to Satan, with some limitations, to show that this is, indeed, a righteous man. And then, in the Gospel, there is the scene where Satan is allowed to tempt Jesus. Satan is accursed, but he's not forgotten. God keeps giving him these opportunities. 

But I'm not talking about Satan. I'm talking about a lesser-known character: Azazel. 

We see Azazel in Leviticus 16, where Moses is giving instructions for making peace with the Lord. This peace requires the sacrifice of a bull and a goat, each of which has its portions set aside for the Lord and its portions set aside for the priests. There's a second goat, though, too. This is the "scapegoat" (which is actually a real thing). The priest is to put his hands on the head of this scapegoat and thereby transfer the sins of the people onto the animal. Then, a designated man will lead this goat into the desert and release it, allowing the sins of the people to wander away from them.

In Leviticus 16, this goat is released not only into the desert, but "in the desert to Azazel." (v. 10) A few verses earlier, we see that this is no accident or afterthought: God has ordained this goat to be "chosen" for Azazel.

Because apparently, even fallen angels need to eat.

It's just amazing to me. We think about this God who, sure, is the stuff dreams are made of. Heaven, streets of gold, redemption, mercy, grace. But this has also been the God of our nightmares. Hell, fire, brimstone, weeping, gnashing of teeth, eternal damnation. He's not a God whose bad side you want to get on. Not to hear the preachers tell it. 

Yet here we have this angel, this fallen angel, who for everything we've read about condemnation ought to be the furthest thing from God's mind. He ought to be completely cut off. He ought to be in the bottomless pit. He ought to be long ago mourned and forgotten. Forsaken, even. And God's giving him a goat. Not just once, but once a year. On a continuing basis. For as long as the people are sacrificing to God, they are commanded to give also one goat to Azazel. 

Now, I'm not sure you can live really on one goat per year, but it's something, right?

And what an incredible encouragement it is to those of us who spend so much of our lives fallen. Not on purpose, I don't think, but it happens to the best of us. We're down and out sinners. No two ways about it. And it's easy to feel sometimes like we're cut off, trapped in a pit, long ago mourned and forgotten. Forsaken, even. 

But God, in His infinite grace, is still making provision for us, the fallen. We see it here in Azazel; it is no less true in us. 

God takes care of His angels. Even the fallen ones. 

God takes care of His saints. Even the fallen ones. 

God takes care of His people. 

Even the fallen ones.

God of the Poor Man

Leviticus provides us a listing of the old law, which contains several offerings that must be made to God and the atonement procedures for sin and uncleanness. Most of these require rams, lambs, bulls, goats, and other large livestock. But there's also generally another set of possible offerings, often birds, and they always begin this way:

But if you cannot afford [the listed offering]...

And this is one of the things I love about God. He doesn't price Himself out of the market.

There is, for sure, a high cost for faithfulness. Anyone who has made a decision for God in the face of culture knows that. And just reading this list of rules in Leviticus reminds us that we have it fairly easy today. The price is still high, don't get me wrong. But God puts the emphasis where it's meant to be.

On the act, not the object, of sacrifice.

See, it doesn't much matter to God whether you sacrifice a ram. He understands that not everyone has a ram, and even those that do may not have a ram suitable for sacrifice. Yes, this is the preferred offering, the prescribed offering, but if God staunchly requires a ram, He cuts Himself off from His own people when they do not have, or cannot afford, a ram. That's not who God is. 

So He's given us this second set of rules, too. If you cannot afford a ram (or a goat or a lamb or a bull or whatever), bring Me something cheap. Bring Me a couple of birds. Bring Me a dusting of flour. Bring Me something. Because what's most important is the act of sacrifice.

What's most important is that we're willing to come to God at all. That we turn back toward Him when we've done something wrong or broken the covenant. That we're not afraid to stand before Him, declare our guilt, and atone for our sin. That we're seeking Him at all costs, even at small costs when that's all we can afford, and that we're working on this relationship. That we're interested in this relationship. That we keep coming to Him. We can't do that as sinners or as unclean men and women, and so He's made a way for even the poorest among us to still come Home. 

Isn't that amazing?

I am not a person of means. I don't have a lot of money just lying around. I read some of these rules and regulations in the old law, and it's easy for me to see that I'm one of those people that, outside of the grace of the poor man's sacrifice, could easily be unclean forever. How am I ever supposed to scrape together enough money to buy a ram? I'm just trying to put food on the table! 

But I could probably afford a couple of birds. The New Testament tells us just how cheap the birds were. I could find enough odd jobs for that, and then all of a sudden, there's a way for me to come back. There's a way for me to stand before God again. I'm so incredibly thankful.

Now, I know, we're not living under the old law any more. None of this really matters in any practical terms. Except that it does show us what kind of God we serve. He's a God who has always made a way for everybody to come to Him. He's a God who does not neglect the poor. He's a God who welcomes all. In the Tabernacle, by accepting an offering of pigeons even when rams seem better. In the streets, by preaching on hills and healing blind men and calling men out of trees. Even in Jesus, He never set Himself apart for those who could find a way; He set about finding them. Making a way for them to come to Him because He wasn't hiding. 

We'd do well to remember that. For the poverty in each of us and the poor among us. 

Toward Canaan

There's one more truth we need to consider about the God who lead in smoke and fire. Particularly, in smoke. And that is this:

Guided by smoke, it's hard to ever really know where you're going.

This is one of the things that frustrates us most about God, I think. He's willing to give us promises like Canaan - dreams of lands flowing with milk and honey, grand ideas about what the future is going to look like. One day. And then He stands in front of us in obscuring smoke so no matter how hard we strain our eyes, we can never quite see the Promised Land. 

All we can see is smoke.

And what's behind that smoke? It could be nearly anything. It could be the land of the Nephilim - people so tall we cower in their mere presence. These are the people who will come against us, who we will be afraid to stand up to, who will seem to block our progress toward the promised things. 

It could be the mountains. Obstacles we'll have to overcome. Things we'll have to climb. Despite what the Bible says about faith, no one has ever moved a mountain. Not a real one, anyway. So when we come upon the mountains, we have to either scale them or go around; there is no other way. Masked in smoke, so often, we don't know we've come upon one until we're halfway up. Then we look around and wonder how we got here.

It could be just wilderness. Just flat, vacant land that feels like nothingness. It's emptiness. It's never-ending. It stretches before us in this vast expanse until we lose all hope of the Promise at all. There is no future ahead, just more of today. Just more of the same. 

It would be nice to know when these troubles are coming. When seemingly-large people are going to stand in our way, when there are going to be mountains to climb, when vast expanses will stretch before us, taunting in their emptiness. It would be nice to know because these are the things that dim our hopes of Canaan. These are the things that make us wonder if we heard right. Is there a Promise at all?

But no. We rarely see the obstacles. There's far too much smoke.

This is where faith comes in.

The challenge, and the invitation, of God is this: can you keep putting one foot in front of the other with nothing but a Promise? Will you? Are you willing to keep walking toward what you cannot see, knowing only that all that you do see is...God? 

That's the beauty of this. It doesn't matter where Canaan lay. It doesn't matter what may stand in the way. Yes, the smoke bothers us. It obscures our line of sight. But never forget this: you can still see the smoke. You can still see God. He's right there, leading the way. Can you...will you...take one more faithful step toward Him? That's all He's asking for. 

And for what it's worth, yes. There is a Canaan.

Smokescreen

God led His people Israel through the wilderness in two forms: smoke and fire. And at one point, in Exodus 14, as the Egyptian army approached in hot pursuit, He stopped leading Israel and came to stand behind them - between them and the approaching Egyptians. When He did this, He did it in smoke.

I probably would have preferred fire.

Because let's face it: smoke doesn't scare too many armies away. They press through and keep pursuing until they come to the battlefield. Smoke may have even looked just like dust kicked up. Not a big deal. Fire, on the other hand. Fire is going to turn those horses back. Fire is going to stop an army dead in its tracks. Nobody can just pass through fire and keep going. At the very worst, it makes the Egyptians pause. At best, it sends them running. So for what it's worth, if the God who comes through smoke and fire decides to stand between me and a pursuing army, I'd rather have Him stand in fire. I'm going to feel safer that way. 

But the smoke does something, too, and maybe that was the point. It was never God's intention to turn the Egyptians back. He never says that was His plan. His plan was always to show His glory through the unfolding events, and what greater glory than a thousand drowned chariots? What greater glory than an army who is no longer a threat? What greater glory than real victory? Decided defeat? 

In the meantime, however, there's Israel. There's a people on the move, somewhere between here and there. Somewhere between Egypt and Canaan. Unsure of how much further they're going. Unsure of how they're going to get there. Unsure of their ability to encounter other people. And their God, who has been leading them, now stands behind them. The world lies open before them but it's just an expanse. Behind them, the thunder of an approaching army. An intimidating army. Horses, chariots, soldiers. None of which they can see any longer.

Because God in His infinite wisdom has just set up a smokescreen.

His presence in fire may have turned the Egyptians away, but His presence in smoke turns Israel's eyes. Either they look in front of them and see the Promised Land or they look behind them and see the presence of God. 

What approaching army?

It's brilliant, really. No matter where the wandering nation looks, they see God. Either in Promise or in Presence. Sure, they probably still hear the thunder. They probably still hear the sound of hooves and chariots. But between those hooves and chariots and the timid nation, there stands a powerful God. A God who is poised in smoke not only to shield His people but to take the breath right out of the approaching army. God before us, God behind us. Whom shall we fear? 

I'm prone to want a God in fire who will turn my enemies away. But there's something about a God of smoke, too. He's a God who ensures that no matter where my eyes may look, I can see only Him. Before me. Behind me. In Promise and in Presence. There He is. Wherever I need Him to be. Between me and the approaching armies, in my own in-between from Canaan to Egypt, from here to there. A smokescreen at its finest.

Got Your Back

God does something beautiful in Exodus 14, and I don't know how many times I've read right past it.

The Israelites have come out of Egypt and are headed for the Promised Land. God is leading them, guiding them by His presence in a column of smoke by day, a column of fire by night. Egypt...is pulling up the rear.

Pharaoh's suddenly seemed to realize that his entire work force is gone. Just...gone. They've all taken off for the desert and taken everything they own with him. His building projects, his social structure, the provision he's made through Israel for his own people are all threatened now that this entire nation of people is gone. And he's going after them.

At the sound of thundering hooves, Israel turns around and sees the chariots in hot pursuit, stirring up dust with every approaching step. They turn forward and see the column of smoke and know...this is the way we're supposed to go. And then...the smoke moves.

The presence of God circles back and stands behind the Israelite camp. 

Now what?

There's room for more than a little misunderstanding here. If you've been following the smoke for awhile now, and God's told you that this is His presence leading you, you're probably tempted to follow the smoke still. You're looking at God circle around behind you, right between you and the pursuing Egyptian army. And maybe you're thinking God is leading you into battle. He's leading you to a place where you have that final showdown. Israel vs. Egypt. Right here in the desert. If you continue to follow the column of smoke, this is where you end up. 

But Israel doesn't do that. They don't engage Egypt here, and I think that's somewhat strange. Because I don't see any indication from God, or from the smoke, that they shouldn't continue to follow Him. God doesn't tell them that He's shifted positions and He's no longer standing in front of them.

The Scriptures tell us that, though. 

The Scriptures tell us not that God was guiding them into battle, but that He had circled around merely to protect them. It says not that He had positioned Himself for war, but that He had positioned Himself for peace. Exodus says, "The column of smoke stood between Israel and Egypt." Between them. As a barrier. As God's way of saying, yes, the chariots are coming, but they have to come through Me. 

And it's not gonna happen.

It's beautiful, really, and here's why: because as much as we love the God who goes before us, who guides the way to the Promised Land, and as much as we love the God who stands beside us, as He will do very soon in the Tabernacle, there's something incredible about the God who stands behind us, too. The God who is willing to back us up. 

That's what He's doing here. He's saying, not only do I love you, not only have I promised you something greater, not only are we going somewhere together, but I stand behind you. One hundred percent. Whenever you need Me backing you up, here I am. Ready to stand between you and whatever powerful army approaches. You just keep looking toward Canaan. I've got this. I've got you.

I've got your back.

Thanks, God.