Where is the Priest?
Why does the New Testament call Jesus our great high priest? And why do we need him to be one? Most Christians have a fairly quick answer: We need a priest because we have sinned, and Jesus offered himself as the sacrifice for our sins. That is true, but there is more to the story.
This essay is adapted from the fifth message in The Meaning of Messiah, a series exploring Jesus through the eyes of the Hebrew Scriptures.
Jesus looks like a king. He is crucified beneath a royal title that says “King of the Jews.”
Jesus looks like a Torah teacher. He interprets Scripture, teaches in synagogues, and insists that he did not come to abolish the Torah.
Jesus looks like a shepherd. He seeks the lost, heals the wounded, feeds the hungry, and gathers the scattered.
But when does Jesus ever look like a priest?
He never offers a sacrifice in the temple. He never burns incense, enters the Holy Place, wears priestly garments, or serves at the altar. In fact, Jesus could not have served as an ordinary priest. He was from Judah, not Levi. He belonged to David’s house, not Aaron’s. The Torah does not authorize him to serve as a Levitical priest—and Jesus is not at liberty to disregard God’s Torah.
So why does the New Testament call him our great high priest? And why do we need him to be one?
Most Christians have a fairly quick answer: We need a priest because we have sinned, and Jesus offered himself as the sacrifice for our sins. That is true, but there is more to the story.
A priest does more than deal with past wrongs. A priest makes life in the presence of God possible.
Messiah’s priesthood explains how mortal people like us can inherit the age to come and dwell in the presence of God forever. The biblical story is moving toward a day when God’s dwelling place will be with humanity—when heaven and earth are united and God lives among his people forever. But how do people still marked by sin and mortality enter that world? How are we made fit for that day?
Those are priesthood questions. The answer is not found by dismissing the priesthood God gave Israel, but by paying very close attention to it.
The Priesthood God Gave Israel
The Levitical priesthood does what God appointed it to do within the covenant, sanctuary, and age for which God gave it. It’s an important distinction. Christians sometimes describe this priesthood almost entirely in terms of its inadequacy—as though it were a failed attempt at salvation that Jesus finally came to replace. I wrote at length about this in my book, The Forgotten Gospel: Reimagining Leviticus and the Story of Jesus.
Of course, inadequate is not how the Torah or the rest of the Bible describes the Levitical priesthood.
God appoints Aaron and his sons to serve in the earthly sanctuary: first the tabernacle and later the temple in Jerusalem. Their ministry belongs to an actual people, an actual land, and an actual sanctuary. They tend the menorah and altar fire, offer the sacrifices appointed in the Torah, distinguish between clean and unclean, guard access to holy space, and lead Israel in worship, blessing, and the appointed times.
Their job is to maintain God’s holy space amid ordinary humans. God is life, and humans have a touch of that life in them. God breathed his breath into our lungs, but from the moment we open our eyes, we are already on a path towards death. Birth and death, burial and disease, reproductive and bodily fluids, food and animals—these things are normal parts of the human experience. Life and death are sacred, and as such, they must be encountered properly. What’s wrong is waltzing into the presense of life itself marked by symbols of death. We call that ritual impurity.
Another way to think of ritual impurity is being “ceremonially unfit.”
If the President of the United States were to arrive at my front door and I were to greet him in my pajamas, with unbrushed teeth and unkempt hair, I would be ceremonially unfit to receive such a guest. It’s not wrong to wear pajamas, but it’s not appropriate to be in the presence of someone with that kind of honor in such a state.
Ritual purity works the same way. If God is to live among Israel and dwell right in their midst, Israel, her people, and the broader community in which God has made his home needed to remain pure so that the God of life could remain among them.
This is why Israel’s sacrifices were so important. God gave Israel the sacrifices as a sort of clean up system. Animal blood genuinely purified the flesh, cleansed the sanctuary, and removed human pollution so God’s presence could remain among his people. The priests made Israel’s life with God possible within the conditions of this present creation.
The priests also served as mortal men. Priests grew old, retired, and died. Another priest took each man’s place. Aaron’s priesthood endured through succession even though the individual priests could not.
And the greatest gift their ministry protected was not Torah, land, or Israel’s national identity. The greatest gift of Sinai was God himself dwelling among Israel: “I will dwell among the people of Israel and will be their God” (Exodus 29:45). So long as the present age and present creation endures, God’s covenant with Israel stands, and the Levites make it possible to host God’s presence on the land—the greatest gift of the Sinai covenant.
Of course, the Levitical priesthood has experienced many interruptions in that service, including the present one. But interruption is not abolition. The absence of a temple in Jerusalem today does not mean that God declared it a failure, nor does it give us permission to erase the purpose for which he gave it. (For more on this topic, I recommend my book, The Forgotten Gospel.)
A King Who Is Also a Priest
Within the same Torah that gives us all this information, we meet another king who is also called a priest. But he is not a Levite. How can that be?
In Genesis 14, Abram returns from battle after rescuing Lot and recovering the people and possessions taken by invading kings. Then—before Levi has been born, before Aaron, before Sinai, before the tabernacle, and before Israel possesses the land—a mysterious figure walks into the story.
“Melchizedek, king of Salem, brought out bread and wine. He was priest of God Most High” (Genesis 14:18).
Melchizedek blesses Abram, and Abram gives him a tenth—just as Israel will later give a tenth to the Levites. Then Melchizedek disappears almost as quickly as he appeared.
Hebrews lingers over this curiosity. By the time of the apostolic era, a robust storyline surrounding Melchizedek had developed. THe author of Hebrews remarks that the Melchizedek story found in Genesis supplies no genealogy, no ancestry. It’s impossible to trace his priesthood to any specific lineage of priests before him. There is no account of Melchizedek’s birth or death, and no record of anyone replacing him. He is simply there, and then he is gone.
Many generations later, David draws this mysterious priest-king into Israel’s messianic hope. Psalm 110 begins with unmistakably royal language: “The LORD says to my lord: Sit at my right hand, until I make your enemies your footstool.” This ruler is enthroned beside God while his enemies are placed beneath his feet.
But then the psalm says something startling: “The LORD has sworn and will not change his mind: You are a priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek.”
David expected the coming Messiah to be a priest—but not a Levitical priest and not according to Aaron’s order. The Messiah would be a priest according to the order of Melchizedek.
Not a Rival Priesthood
Jesus never served as a Levitical priest because he was not a Levite. Instead, he honored the God-given authority of the Levitical priests, just as the Torah requires. When he healed a man with leprosy, for example, he sent the man to the priest with the offering Moses commanded.
In the decades after Jesus’s ascension, his Jewish followers continued to worship at the temple, participate in its rhythms, and bring offerings under the authority of the Levitical priesthood. Even priests who came to believe that Jesus was the Messiah continued serving in the temple. None of this seems to have troubled them.
They did not believe faith in Jesus required them to reject the priesthood God had given Israel. Nor did they imagine that the Levites and Jesus were competing for the same office. They understood Messiah belongs to another priestly order, serves in another sanctuary, and holds his priesthood on another basis.
Once we stop forcing both priesthoods into the same sanctuary and same roles, their relationship becomes much easier to see.
A Priesthood That Reaches Beyond Death
Like the Levites, Messiah performs priestly ministry. Unlike the Levites, he does not offer an animal. He offers himself and presents his own blood. He intercedes continually for his people. Revelation even portrays his heavenly ministry with imagery drawn from Israel’s sanctuary: he walks among lampstands, prayers rise like incense, and faithful witnesses wait beneath an altar.
But Messiah’s priesthood is not sustained through a line of successors. Hebrews says he became a priest not on the basis of ancestry but “through the power of an indestructible life” (Hebrews 7:16). Death cannot terminate his office. The risen priest remains forever.
Aaron’s priesthood continues through succession. Messiah’s priesthood continues through resurrection.
That distinction helps us see why his priesthood reaches toward the age to come: the age of resurrection and renewed creation, when heaven and earth are finally united and God dwells with his people forever.
Flesh and blood cannot inherit that kingdom. Mortal, corruptible humanity cannot simply walk into the unveiled presence of God unchanged. If we are going to live with God forever, we are going to need some new hardware!
This is why we need a priesthood whose ministry reaches beyond the conditions of the present age. Messiah has already passed through death and entered resurrection life. He has gone ahead of us into the life of the world to come—not just to show us that such life exists, but to secure our inheritance there.
The Levitical priesthood makes it possible for the holy God to dwell among mortal people in this present creation.
Messiah’s priesthood makes it possible for mortal people to be remade and dwell with God forever.
These priesthoods are not competitors. They belong to different orders, serve in different sanctuaries, accomplish different kinds of purification, and reach toward different covenantal horizons.
Yet both reveal the same extraordinary desire within the heart of God: to dwell with his people.
The Priest Is Alive
God did not stand at a safe distance and tell mortal, sinful humanity to find its own way back to him. He provided the covenant. He provided the sanctuary. He provided the priesthood. He provided the sacrifice. And ultimately, he provided the priest who could carry human life all the way through death and into resurrection.
Every movement toward God begins with something God has already provided.
That means our life with God does not rest upon our ability to hold everything together. Israel could not hold everything together. Her worship has been interrupted. Her sanctuary has been lost. Her people have endured exile, even to this day. But interruption is not abandonment. God remains faithful to his covenant, even through long seasons when we struggle to see how his purposes will continue.
There are seasons when the form of worship we have known changes. Things we believed would remain may not remain. Places, institutions, ministries, relationships, and communities that helped us meet with God can become fragile—or sometimes even disappear. The pain of that experience is real. But our confidence does not rest in our ability to preserve every structure. It rests in the faithfulness of the God who keeps covenant across generations.
The priest is alive.
He has not retired. He has not been replaced. He has not abandoned his post. Wherever the future takes us, we have not been left without access to God.
Shadows of the Things to Come
Hebrews calls the earthly sanctuary, its priesthood, its sacrifices, and its rhythms shadows of heavenly things. Paul uses similar language in Colossians 2 when he brings up Israel’s festivals, new moons, and Sabbaths: “These are a shadow of the things that are to come; and the reality is found in Messiah.”
Notice Paul’s tense. They are shadows of things to come—things still ahead of us, not something already passed. A shadow is precious because it tells us that something real is near.
When we remember Passover, welcome Sabbath, rehearse the holy days, or receive the bread and the cup, we are not reenacting something old. We are allowing God’s promised future to become tangible for a moment in the present. We are practicing, in small and embodied ways, for life in the world to come.
If I told my children, “Shabbat no longer matters. Lighting the menorah at Hanukkah no longer matters. Building the sukkah in the backyard each fall isn’t important,” they would be crushed! They would look at me as though I had stolen Christmas—which, for the record, we also celebrate!
For our family, these practices have become little tastes of home. They allow us to reach backward and remember God’s faithfulness to his people while reaching forward toward everything he has promised. The fullness is not here yet. But the shadow is growing stronger, and the table has already been set.
Bread, Wine, and the Table of Messiah
Long ago, Melchizedek—the king of righteousness, king of peace, and priest of God Most High—came out to meet Abram after a great victory. He set out the bread and the wine.
Many generations later, at the Passover meal before his death, Jesus gathered his disciples around another table. He took bread, blessed God, broke it, and gave it to them. Then he took the cup and said, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood.”
But Jesus also pointed them beyond that room. He said he longed for day when he would drink the fruit of the vine anew in the kingdom. Scripture promises that when he returns to reign in fullness, he will host a huge banquet on a mountain in Jerusalem, where people will come from east and west to take their places at the table with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.
The disciples will be there. Moses and Elijah will be there. Miriam and Junia will be there. People from every generation and every nation who have worshiped the God of Israel will gather around that table.
Imagine the stories that will be told! Imagine hearing what God accomplished through lives we never knew and places we never saw. Imagine talking together about all the wonderful things unfolding in a world finally governed by the Messiah!
And then our risen King and eternal high priest will stand. With nail-scarred hands, he will lift the bread, bless God, and break it.
Our high priest is preparing us for that day.
Every time we come to the table, we look in three directions.
We look backward—to the covenant already cut and the offering already made.
We look upward—to the living high priest who now ministers and intercedes for us in the heavenly sanctuary.
And we look forward—to the table of Messiah that is still to come.
The bread and the cup are a taste of a world we cannot yet see. The Table of Messiah is the age to come placed briefly into our hands by our Great High Priest.
Birthday Candles and Tisha B’Av
This year my birthday happens to fall on Tisha B’Av. While I celebrate life, another people mourn over what the world lost.
Today is my birthday.
Another day I get to thank my Maker for giving me the precious gift of breath in these lungs. Every year is testimony to God’s kindness. Our Creator is outrageously gracious.
This year my birthday happens to fall on Tisha B’Av. While I celebrate life, another people mourn over what the world lost.
Two Calendars
Tisha B’Av is the day the Jewish people remember the destruction of both temples in Jerusalem, which amazingly occurred on the same day hundreds of years apart. They also mourn the suffering, exile, and heartbreaking loss of life that followed. It is a day marked by fasting, lament, and remembrance. Generation after generation, Jewish families hold this grief, refusing to forget the place where God has caused his name to dwell.
For me, this year is a real juxtaposition. One calendar tells me to celebrate; the other invites me to mourn.
The Chapter I Almost Cut
Last year, my birthday looked very different.
At my request, my husband took the day off work and took the kids out for several hours, giving me precious, uninterrupted time to work on my book. This time last year, I was nearing the final draft of The Forgotten Gospel, feverishly summing up chapter 11 and nervously preparing to hand off the entire manuscript my editor. When his comments eventually came back—overwhelming me with thoughtful criticism—I revised nearly everything he pointed out. But there was one suggestion I struggled with.
He urged me to remove chapter 11, Why Don’t We Have a Temple Today, entirely.
His reasoning was understandable. The chapter ventured into difficult territory—Israel, the Temple Mount, the land, Zionism—questions that lean political in the minds of most readers. In his mind, it belonged in a different book.
I mulled over his advice for weeks, but in the end, I retained the chapter in full. I couldn’t bring myself to put forward a book about Leviticus while ignoring the question of the temple’s place in our day, a loss that sits at odds with both Leviticus’s story and it’s hope.
My book argues that Leviticus is not merely a collection of ancient rituals expired at the cross, but the beating heart of the story about a holy God choosing to dwell among his people. The sacrifices, the priesthood, the festivals, the laws—they all orbit one glorious reality: Yahweh living in the midst of Israel.
Today, for a number of reasons, that reality remains painfully out of reach.
Maybe it’s nostalgia, but it feels a bit providential that a year later—after wrestling with such an divisive topic and wondering whether to include it in my book at all—my birthday would fall on Tisha B'Av, the day of mourning the loss that is God’s earthly abode.
How would I feel today, I wonder, had I convinced myself to remove that chapter because it was “too political?” “Too disconnected” for readers from the gospel, from all God is doing through his Messiah?
To me, and to many others, the temple is the crown jewel in God’s beautiful plan to redeem and restore all things.
Had I removed the chapter, I fear I may have spent today doing what my book ultimately cautions its readers against: celebrating God's faithfulness to me while remaining indifferent to the people and place through whom God promises to work in the world.
The Fallen Tent at the Center
Without the temple, Israel cannot experience the covenant fullness of God's promised dwelling among them. And if God is not dwelling in the midst of his people in the way he promised, his covenant purposes remain publicly unfinished before the nations.
Moses himself appealed to this very concern. If Yahweh abandoned his people in the wilderness, the surrounding nations would conclude that he was unable to fulfill the promises he had made (Numbers 14:13–16).
Centuries later, Ezekiel looked beyond exile to the day those promises would finally reach their fulfillment:
"My dwelling place shall be with them... Then the nations will know that I am Yahweh who sanctifies Israel, when my sanctuary is in their midst forevermore" (Ezekiel 37:26–28).
The Jerusalem temple has never been merely about Israel. It is also God’s witness to the nations that he is faithful to every word he has spoken.
While I may have spent last year wrangling the words to explain all this, this year, Tisha B’Av teaches me to hold gratitude and longing together—to rejoice in the salvation God has already accomplished and to pray with greater urgency for the restoration yet to come.
Whether it’s Leviticus, the temple, or the biblical narrative itself, I remain convinced that none of it is a story whose central hope has been transcended, transferred, or “fulfilled in Christ,” but the ongoing oaths of a Living God whose promises are still moving toward their great destination.
The Hope
As a disciple of Jesus, I rejoice in the astonishing realities revealed in the risen Messiah. A small foretaste of God’s Spirit has been unleashed in the world, reaching far beyond the walls of a temple complex. He dwells with people in ways that surpass what anyone expected. Those truths are as life-changing as they are beautiful.
But celebrating the worship of Yahweh “in Spirit and truth” and living in the light of the Master’s resurrection does not require me to dismiss the grief of another people whom my God repeatedly promises—and commands—to long for the day his presence will once again dwell among them in Zion.
In fact, I believe the opposite is true.
The prophets envision a future in which Messiah restores the ruins of the ancient walls. The God who once filled the tabernacle, Solomon’s temple, and the devout Jews gathered at the temple in Acts 2 has not abandoned his promises.
The greatest hope of our faith is the hope to which Leviticus points: that God will dwell fully with his people forever. We long for the day when all creation is redeemed—when the presence of Yahweh fills the earth as the waters cover the sea. We long for the day when God's dwelling is once again in the midst of his people, and the nations finally know him as he promised.
Tisha B'Av is not in competition with the gospel. It is the lament of its heart—a sorrowful hope in the very good news the temple reflects: here on earth as it is in heaven.
Gratitude and Longing
On this twenty-third of July, I have much to celebrate: another year of life, a beautiful family, a published book—complete with chapter 11, a chapter I am not ashamed put in front of my readers. Perhaps it can inspire us all to pray with greater compassion for a people who still safeguard the heart of what the world lost so many years ago.
Birthdays teach me that life is finite. But resurrection teaches me that death is not the end. I rejoice because I know that one day I, too, will be born again—this time, to immortality in a day where we mourn the fallen tent of David no more.
Tisha B'Av likewise reminds me that things are finite, death is real, and loss is painful. But faith reminds me that my God can rebuild the ancient ruins. Like Adam and Eve—bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh—the heavenly sanctuary and its earthly counterpart mirror each other. Distinct, yet inseparable. One reflecting the glory of the other until the great mystery is complete, and Yahweh brings them together in shalom.
Oh dear God, I thank you for another year of life and vitality, merited only by your incredible kindness. Thank you for your faithfulness through seasons of both joy and sorrow, of mourning and dancing.
And today, on a day of joy and of solemn day of remembrance, I join my prayers with your people. Comfort those who mourn in Zion, who mourn outside of Zion. Remember your covenant with their fathers. And Lord, hasten the day when your promises are fulfilled, your presence once again fills your holy place, and mourning gives way to everlasting joy.
Until that day comes, I pray that my life—every birthday you grant me now, and every moment in the resurrection—be spent singing and writing and prophesying of your great and unfailing faithfulness.
“You have turned my mourning into dancing... O Yahweh my God, I will give thanks to you forever.” (Psalm 30:11–12)
Why I Wrote a Book About Leviticus (Of All Things)
If you had asked me a few years ago—hypothetically—what book of the Bible I would one day write about, Leviticus would not have made the list. Not even close.
If you had asked me a few years ago—hypothetically—what book of the Bible I would one day write about, Leviticus would not have made the list.
Not even close.
Leviticus is the book most of us skim or skip entirely. It’s where Bible reading plans go to die somewhere around mid-February. It’s strange, repetitive, and heavy with details that don’t seem to connect to modern faith.
Yet there it sits at the very center of the Torah, the center of Israel’s Scriptures, and the center of the story that defines Jesus.
So why write a book about it?
The short answer is this: I came to see that Leviticus is essential to the gospel, and I couldn’t not share what I had learned.
Jesus said he came to fulfill the Torah—and Leviticus is at the heart of it.
In Matthew 5:17, Jesus says:
“Do not think that I have come to abolish the Torah or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them.”
It’s a familiar verse. One we tend to read and nod along with, and then move past.
But I began to wonder: do we actually take Jesus at his word?
Because if he did not come to abolish the Torah, then we have to wrestle with what it means that he came to fulfill it. And that question becomes especially pressing when we arrive at Leviticus—the book that sits at the center of the Torah’s main tension: how can a holy God dwell among unholy people?
Leviticus is not a side note. It is the core of the good news. It’s where we learn what it means for a holy God to draw near to unholy people—what that looks like and what it costs to make it possible.
And when you start paying attention, you begin to notice something: Jesus lives and speaks as if Leviticus still matters.
He operates within categories of clean and unclean.
He spends a huge amount of time in and around the temple.
He is deeply moved by the fate of Jerusalem—the place of God’s dwelling.
And he seems to believe that its story is not over.
That realization alone was enough to stop me in my tracks.
“Fulfilled” does not mean “replaced”—and that changes how we read everything.
Somewhere along the way, many of us inherited an assumption: that once Jesus came, Leviticus—and much of the Torah—was effectively finished.
Not abolished, exactly. But completed (past tense) in a way that no longer holds real weight. As though Jesus arrived, died, rose again, and poof—the Torah was fulfilled and done. But the more I sat with Jesus’ words, the less that assumption held up.
He goes on to say that those who set aside even the least of these commandments—and teach others to do the same—will be called least in the kingdom. To me, that didn’t sound like a system that’s been rendered irrelevant.
And it raised uncomfortable questions:
If Leviticus is“fulfilled” by him basically doing away with it, why insist he didn’t come to abolish it?
If the Torah is complete and already behind us, why warn against setting its commands aside?
That tension forced me to ask deeper questions: what if I’ve been reading all of this wrong?
That shift changed everything.
Instead of reading Leviticus as a dry relic—something that once mattered but no longer does—I began to read it for what it was actually saying. I tried to see it as Jesus did: a framework that points forward. One that finds its depth and future in the work of Messiah, but is not discarded by him. I asked,
What if the categories still matter?
What if the vision still matters?
What if the priesthood, the sacrifices, the rhythms of worship all still matter?
And what if its story is still unfolding?
Suddenly, Leviticus became impossible to ignore. I began to realize that a book that was central to the life and mission of my Savior was not central to me.
That needed to change.
I had questions no one seemed to be answering.
Once those first two realizations settled in, they opened up a flood of questions.
If Leviticus still matters, how does it matter?
If it hasn’t been replaced, how should we read it now?
What do we do with sacrifice, priesthood, ritual, the Day of Atonement?
How did Jesus understand these things? And how did his first followers hold these things alongside faith in him?
And what about the New Testament? The temple?
Paul, Galatians, Hebrews? The new covenant? “You’re free from the Law!” I went looking for answers.
I read books, articles, and journals. I listened to sermons and podcasts. I took classes. I searched for voices asking these same questions. And I found…very little.
There were excellent scholars writing about Leviticus in its ancient context. There were thoughtful theologians explaining how Jesus relates to the law. But usually, the conversation seemed to stop too soon. Leviticus was either reduced to metaphor, absorbed into church tradition, or ultimately dismissed as something Jesus came to transcend.
None of them could answer the question I was asking: what does it mean to take Jesus at his word—that he didn’t come to abolish the Torah—and take Leviticus seriously at the same time?
I couldn’t shake the sense that Jesus didn’t read Leviticus the way I did. He didn’t stand over it, deciding how he’d render it all obsolete. He stepped into it. He let it shape his mission. His identity. His understanding of what he came to do—and what God is still doing.
For him.
For the Jewish people.
And for the world.
And that left me with a decision. I could set those questions aside, or I could follow them wherever they led.
So I wrote the book I couldn’t find.
I didn’t start with a plan to write a book.
I started with a growing, gnawing sense that I had missed something.
So I began tracing the threads, from Leviticus into the Prophets, the Gospels, and the letters. From the tent at Sinai to the heavenly tabernacle still destined, one day, to descend to the land.
I stopped trying to read Leviticus backwards—starting with conclusions about Jesus and forcing the text to fit them—and instead tried to read it the way Jesus knew it: as a living part of the story he was stepping into.
What I found was not a disconnected system of ancient rituals that Jesus replaced with himself at the cross. I found a vision of a people and a tent that are at the very center of everything God still intends to do.
And I found that without Leviticus, I completely misunderstood almost everything about Jesus and his mission.
Why this book—and why now?
I wrote this book because I think we’ve lost something.
Not just a book of the Bible, but a critical piece of the story that most of us don’t even know.
We’ve learned to read the New Testament without its foundation.
To talk about Jesus without the categories he lived within.
To celebrate fulfillment without understanding what is being fulfilled.
And in doing so, we’ve emptied the gospel of Leviticus—and our future hope of its promises.
The Forgotten Gospel is my attempt to recover that missing piece.
Not by discovering something new, but by returning to something old.
As old as Sinai.
As old as covenant.
As old as the gospel itself.
An Invitation to Reimagine Leviticus
If Leviticus has ever felt distant to you, you’re not alone. If you’ve wondered why it’s there, or what it has to do with Jesus, you’re asking the right questions.
And if you’ve assumed it no longer matters, because no one has ever shown you why it would—I understand.
But what if that assumption is wrong?
What if the book we forgot is the one that helps us see the gospel more clearly? What if, instead of leaving Leviticus behind, we’re meant to grow into it? What if we need to reimagine Leviticus?
That’s the question that started this journey, and it’s the one that led me to write The Forgotten Gospel.
Some stories deserve to be remembered. Leviticus is one of them.