Introduction

Some of us walked in today with a smile that hides the tired places of the soul. Some of us carried questions that feel too heavy to say out loud. And some of us came hungry for hope, like parched ground waiting for rain. Friend, you are seen. You are welcome. You are loved. In this moment, with all that you carry and all that carries you, God draws near.

Picture with me the courtyard of the tabernacle. The sun warms the sand beneath your feet. The scent of wood and smoke lingers in the air. The bronze glints like a sunrise. And there it stands—the first thing you meet as you enter: an altar. Not a stage, not a throne, not a choir loft. An altar. The front door to fellowship with God was not a staircase to climb, it was a place to lay something down. The altar was the opening note of worship, the welcome mat to the Holy of Holies. It told a trembling people that God makes a way. It said, “Come near, and bring your heart.”

Why does God start us at an altar? Why does the map of meeting Him begin with a place of sacrifice? Could it be that God, in kindness, teaches us that life with Him is not polished performance, it is surrendered presence? That peace comes where we place our lives in His hands? That worship is not first about words we sing, it is about selves we bring?

You and I know the ache of guilt that lingers and the stain that doesn’t wash out with positive thinking. We also know the weary wondering of trying to clean ourselves up with effort and vows and second chances. The altar is God’s answer for weary hearts. The altar says, “There is a substitute. There is a way.” And for us, on this side of the cross, we see every shadow pointing to the Savior—the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world. Smoke rises, and so does hope.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote, “When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die.” (Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship) Those words land hard, and they also land true. In Jesus, death-to-self becomes the door to life. Surrender opens the spring. The altar is not the end of joy; it is the beginning of it. Your Father invites you to bring what you cannot keep and receive what you cannot lose.

So today, as we draw near to a simple verse about a simple structure made of wood and bronze, listen for the whisper behind it. Approach begins where something is given. Mercy meets us where judgment would have held us. And worship grows when our everyday life climbs onto the altar—mornings and meetings, errands and evenings—all offered back to the One who offered Himself for us.

If your heart is tired, take heart. If your hands are full, open them. If your faith feels thin, you came to the right place. God is near the altar. God is near the broken. God is near you.

Scripture Reading Exodus 27:1 (KJV) And thou shalt make an altar of shittim wood, five cubits long, and five cubits broad; the altar shall be foursquare: and the height thereof shall be three cubits.

Opening Prayer Father, we come with thankful hearts. Thank You for making a way for sinners to draw near to a holy God. Thank You for the altar that pointed forward to the cross, and for Jesus, our perfect sacrifice and our perfect priest. By Your Spirit, make our hearts tender today. Teach us to bring You what we carry and to receive what You give. Let the smoke of old sacrifices remind us of the sweet fragrance of Christ’s finished work. Move us from fear to faith, from trying to trusting, from self-reliance to holy surrender. As we open Your Word, open our eyes. As we lift our voices, lift our burdens. As we offer ourselves, make our lives a living altar, pleasing to You. In the name of Jesus, our Savior and our song. Amen.

Approach Begins with Sacrifice at the Altar

Exodus 27:1 sounds like a blueprint. A box of wood. Five by five. Three high. It looks simple on the page. Yet it speaks to how people came close to God. It sets the tone. It tells us what comes first. Before songs. Before speeches. There is a place for offering.

The text names the wood. Shittim wood. Acacia. A tree that survives harsh land. Tough grain. Hard to rot. God asked for a strong base. Fire would touch it. Weight would press on it. Time would test it. A flimsy frame would fail. A strong frame would last. This matters for us. What we bring to God rests on more than feelings. It needs steady stuff. Choices. Repentance. Patience. Faith that holds when days run long. The wood says, bring something that will hold up. Bring what endures when heat rises.

The altar is called foursquare. All sides the same length. No long side. No short side. Straight lines. Clear edges. It did not lean toward one tribe over another. You could stand on any side and see the same face. That shape preaches. No corner hides a better angle. No side gives a secret door. The way to come close is steady and clear. No tricks. No maze. Come with an offering. Come with a heart that yields. Come the same as your neighbor. The square shape says, this place is fair. This place is plain. This place does not flatter rank or title.

The size matters too. Five cubits by five cubits. Three cubits high. It is large enough for real sacrifice. It is small enough for real hands to reach. You would not need a tower to touch it. You would not need tiny tools to use it. People could approach. Priests could work. Ashes could be tended. Blood could be handled. The scale says, God makes room for what is needed. Not excess. Not lack. When we come, we do not guess at what to give. We bring what He asks. We bring it in the way He asks. The measurements teach us to let God set the terms.

“And thou shalt make an altar.” The first words are a call to act. Build it. Do it. Obedience comes before reflection. The people were to fashion what God described. Wood cut to size. Angles squared. Height measured. It was not left to mood. It was not left to later. The command formed a rhythm for the camp. There would be a place ready when sin was confessed. There would be a place ready when thanks rose. In our lives, we need things we make on purpose. Times set. Habits shaped. Places where we kneel. Altar work begins when we answer God’s word with our hands.

Look again at the material. Acacia holds up under desert wind. It carries scars and still stands. That says something tender. God uses what is present in the wilderness. He does not wait for cedar from far hills. He takes the tree near the tent. He sanctifies what is at hand. For us, this means the life we have can become an offering place. Our hours. Our work. Our home table. Nothing wasted. Ordinary wood, set apart by command, becomes holy use. Bring what you have. Bring it as He says. He meets you there.

Look again at the square. Four sides face four directions. In the camp, tribes rested north, south, east, and west. Every group could look and know their path to the flame. No one needed a map that favored one gate. The altar invited from every quarter. That helps us think straight about access. We do not invent a private lane. We do not claim a better rung. We come the way God gives. We come as people among people. The equal sides teach us humility. The equal sides teach us courage.

Look again at the height. Three cubits is about the chest of a standing adult. That is close to eye level. You could see what was offered. You could lay your hand. You could watch the cost. You could smell and hear and learn. The height did not hide the act. It trained hearts. Meeting God touches the senses. Our faith is not only thoughts. It is bodies. It is moments. It is things brought and laid down. The altar taught by sight and touch.

Look again at the command to make it. God began with a build. The tent was not only ideas. It was lumber moved. It was sweat on brows. It was craft. Worship shapes us when we do the things God tells us to do. Pray. Confess. Give thanks. Make peace with a brother. Rest on the day He blesses. Share bread. Open Scripture. These are planks and nails for an altar life. We do them, and our hearts learn. We do them, and our steps line up with His word.

The altar marked a boundary and a welcome. It set a line where life is offered and grace is received. It made a spot where guilt could be addressed. It gave form to what is often vague inside us. The details in the verse are mercy. They keep us from guessing. They keep us from delay. They help us come with open hands.

Sacrifice always costs. The animal was real. The loss was felt. The person knew that this was serious. That weight matters. Easy gifts do not train the soul. Real giving changes us. Real surrender clears room. In the old camp, flame consumed what was placed there. In our days, God still asks for what has our grip. Time. Pride. Control. He teaches us to open our fingers. He teaches us to trust His way.

Some notice the number five and think of mercy they have known. Some notice the square and think of a table where all have a place. The text does not tell us to chase symbols. It tells us to build what God says. It tells us to use it as He says. That keeps us safe. That keeps us honest. When Scripture gives measurements, it gives us edges to live within. Edges can feel tight. Edges are kindness. They hold us steady.

In that court, the altar stood ready morning by morning. The verse that names its size also names its purpose. It was an altar, not a bench, not a box. Fire would burn there. Offerings would rise there. In our walk with God, this becomes clear too. We cannot skip the place where we yield. We cannot replace it with talk. We meet Him where we hand over what He asks.

Think of the craft that went into it. Straight cuts. Clean joins. Careful work. Holiness and craftsmanship meet in the command. This motivates us to bring care to our obedience. Sloppy sacrifices insult. Careful offerings honor. Make the call. Write the note. Return what you owe. Guard your mouth. These are clean lines on the altar of a day.

The text is brief. The effect is large. With a few words, God set a pattern. Draw near with offering. Draw near with care. Draw near by His design. The altar was not a prop. It was the place where sin was dealt with and thanks was expressed. We gain clarity when we keep that order before our eyes.

And thou shalt make an altar. The sentence still instructs. Start with obedience. Start with a place to hand over what should be given. Start with measured steps. God speaks. We answer. The wood is plain. The shape is clear. The work is within reach. Build what He says. Bring what He asks. He meets you on the square.

Judgment Meets Mercy in Christ's Sacrifice

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