Tending the Fire

Worship in the Quiet Consistency (Leviticus 6–7)

We’re in Leviticus this week in our Thursday night Bible study—part of an eight-year, chronological walk through the Bible. Week by week. Line by line. And this week we opened Leviticus chapters 6 and 7: not the offerings from the worshiper’s side, but from the priests’. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t emotional. But as I studied it, I saw something deeper—God wasn’t just giving instructions. He was telling His story.

In Leviticus 6:8–13, God commands Moses to speak to Aaron and his sons about the burnt offering. It’s the first time we hear about it from the priest’s perspective. And the first instruction God gives?

“The fire on the altar shall be kept burning; it shall not go out.”

(Leviticus 6:9, 12, 13)

That one command is repeated three times. It’s not a passing detail—it’s central.

This fire didn’t start with human effort. Leviticus 9:24 tells us that fire came from the LORD and consumed the burnt offering on the altar. The origin was divine. But its continuation was entrusted to the priests. Every day they were to clear the ashes, lay the wood, and tend the flame. They couldn’t create it—but they were responsible to keep it.

That rhythm struck me. Not because I had some emotional moment. But because I saw, in the careful repetition and daily discipline, the pattern of God’s faithfulness—and our response. Not passion-driven, but presence-shaped.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

(Psalm 46:10)

God doesn’t need fire to burn for His sake. He is eternally self-sufficient (Acts 17:25). But He commands it for ours. The altar fire was a visible, ongoing testimony that God was near—and that nearness was holy.

Not dangerous because God is unstable—but because we are unclean. The fire reminded Israel that they could not approach casually. His presence is not like ours. His purity consumes impurity. His righteousness exposes all that is false. And yet—He didn’t withdraw. He made a way.

That’s what the sacrificial system was: not a barrier, but a bridge. Not God pushing sinners away, but God showing them how to come near safely (Hebrews 10:1). He doesn’t lower His standard. He provides a covering.

“The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.”

(Psalm 103:8)

And it’s here that the larger story came into view. Because every offering, every priest, every instruction was not an end in itself—it was a signpost.

Each sacrifice pointed forward to the One who would fulfill them all.

“For Christ, our Passover Lamb, has been sacrificed.”

(1 Corinthians 5:7)

“He appeared once for all… to put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself.”

(Hebrews 9:26)

Jesus is the true burnt offering—fully consumed, wholly offered (Philippians 2:8).

He is the true sin offering—bearing our guilt (Isaiah 53:5–6).

He is the true peace offering—restoring fellowship between God and man (Romans 5:1).

He didn’t bring fire from heaven. He brought Himself.

Not to the altar, but to the cross.

Not with lambs or bulls, but with His own blood (Hebrews 9:12).

And now, because of Him, the altar is no longer bronze and stone. It’s within.

And the fire is not a literal flame—it is the presence of the Holy Spirit (Romans 5:5; 2 Timothy 1:6).

Not a fire that consumes in judgment, but that refines and consecrates (Malachi 3:2–3).

And the sacrifice? It’s us. It is our daily lives, our routines, our thoughts, our plans, our experiences, our, past, present, and future. All of us.

“Present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.”

(Romans 12:1)

That’s the pattern now. We don’t bring burnt offerings. We bring obedience. We return again and again to the altar of grace—not always feeling it, not always emotional—but trusting that God’s Word holds true.

Sometimes worship doesn’t look like a song or a scripture memorized.

Sometimes it looks like showing up when you feel nothing.

Sometimes it looks like dragging yesterday’s narratives to the altar and laying them down.

Sometimes it looks like bringing your imperfect self back into His presence—and offering Him all of it.

That’s what struck me as I read about the peace offering in Leviticus 7.

It’s the only offering where the worshiper, the priest, and the LORD all share a meal. It’s a fellowship offering. A table, not just an altar. And in verse 13, something remarkable:

“With the sacrifice of his peace offerings for thanksgiving he shall bring his offering with loaves of leavened bread.”

Leavened bread. The kind often associated with sin and corruption. And yet God makes room for it here.

Alongside the unleavened bread (symbol of purity and holiness), He allows the leavened. He permits the ordinary, the imperfect.

Because of Jesus, both are welcome.

“By a single offering He has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified.”

(Hebrews 10:14)

He doesn’t wait for us to become holy enough to meet Him. He makes us holy by meeting us through His Son.

So we return.

Not always feeling like we’re on holy ground. But knowing that wherever God speaks through His Word—He is present. And wherever He is present—that ground is made holy.

The fire started with Him.

And by grace, we are invited to tend it still.