The price of redemption
In an age where we are inundated with headlines of suffering, evil, fear, and death – where there is simultaneously an ease to remaining comfortable with ignorance, distance, or avoidance – the Confessions of Saint Augustine and the signposts of the Old Testament guide Christians towards a more robust understanding of the gravity of the sacrifice of Jesus Christ. Within modern western culture, death is often dealt with behind closed doors. The sick and elderly rarely die at home, intimately cared for by their loved ones throughout the process of dying. Instead they are shipped off, making death seem less intrusive, more remote, palatable, forgettable. The vast majority of people do not know the process by which the meat at their table arrived upon their plate – we pick up the neatly packaged, unbloodied bits of cleanly marbled steak from the butcher without a thought towards the butchering. And yet, the writer of Hebrews states: “Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sins” (Hebrews 9:22).
The lens of Augustine
As a man who wrestled with balancing the gifts and temptations of the physical world, Saint Augustine was well aware of the powers of the senses. He knew with personal knowledge not only their allure, but also that death was an affront to them. Because of the third century AD cultural familiarity that Augustine had with death and suffering, his sorrow and awe over the humble and sacrificial death of Christ are palpable throughout his Confessions as he meditated on “God himself, enfeebled by sharing this garment of our mortality.” The dark realities of that mortality fueled his awe as he marveled at the terrible beauty of the gift of salvation. He prayed:
“You know how weak I am and how inadequate is my knowledge: teach me and heal my frailty. Your only Son… has redeemed me with His blood…. The price of my redemption is always in my thoughts.”
Augustine knew that the price of his redemption was the physical suffering, torture, and death of Jesus Christ. Having witnessed death with his own eyes, he could not help but be overwhelmed by the weight of the willing sacrifice of the divine Son of God.
The liturgies of Leviticus
While the repetitive details and ancient rituals of Leviticus give this book a dry reputation, there is a deep gravitas to the visceral realities of a system of atonement set up by God Himself. It was a means of grace for His people so that they might receive purification and forgiveness in order to enter into communion with Him. Our modern sensibilities tend to respond in shock over such archaic acts: a priest killing animal after animal; blood dripping from his fingers, as he sprinkled it methodically onto multiple surfaces; watching the flesh of animals be consumed with fire; eating a portion of the meat as God Himself invited the priest to commune with Him. And yet each of these acts was necessary. The shedding of blood was necessary for sinners to enter into the presence of a Holy God. And it still is for us today:
“But when Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, He sat down at the right hand of God…. For by a single offering He has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified.” Hebrews 10:12-14
Modern Christians, when removed from the unpleasant details of the sacrificial system, can easily underestimate the gravity of the suffering and death of Jesus on their behalf, losing sight of their sinfulness before a Holy God, and the glorious shock of His resurrection. Choosing to face the reality of death – the price of our redemption – can build a deeper gratitude not only for the grace and forgiveness of God, but also for the precious life, death, and resurrection of Christ our Lord. We can face our own sin, suffering, and mortality with a sense of awe knowing the necessary blood has been shed, paving the way for us to come boldly into worship and communion with a Holy God who was willing to pay the price of redemption on our behalf!
Rebecca Faulks is a nurse, seminary student, and member at Mosaic Boston church in Boston, MA.
