"for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus, whom God put forward as a propitiation by his blood, to be received by faith. This was to show God's righteousness, because in his divine forbearance he had passed over former sins. It was to show his righteousness at the present time, so that he might be just and the justifier of the one who has faith in Jesus."

The scent of burning flesh hung perpetually in the air around the Jerusalem temple. From dawn to dusk, smoke rose from countless altars as lambs, bulls, goats, and doves were offered for the sins of the people. The book of Leviticus records that a single Day of Atonement required the sacrifice of two goats, one ram, and one bull just for the high priest and the nation. Multiply this across daily offerings, weekly Sabbaths, monthly festivals, and annual feasts, and you begin to grasp the staggering volume of blood that was shed in Israel's sacrificial system.
Yet for all this blood, for all these deaths, for all this elaborate ritual—the worshiper could never be made perfect. The sacrifices had to be repeated endlessly because they could never accomplish what they symbolized: the complete removal of sin.

The centerpiece of Israel's sacrificial system was the mercy seat—the golden cover of the ark of the covenant in the Holy of Holies. Once a year, on the Day of Atonement, the high priest would sprinkle the blood of the sacrificial goat on this mercy seat. This was where God's wrath was appeased, where mercy triumphed over judgment, where the sins of Israel were covered for another year.
But notice that word: covered. The Hebrew term kaphar means "to cover over, to make atonement." The sacrificial blood didn't remove sin—it covered it, postponed divine judgment, provided temporary relief. The writer of Hebrews makes this clear: "It is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins" (Hebrews 10:4).
This is why Paul calls the mercy seat an "instrument of grace" that God had put forward to show His righteousness. All those years of covering sin, of passing over transgression, of postponing judgment—God wasn't being soft on sin. He was demonstrating patience until the perfect sacrifice could be offered.

When Jesus died on the cross, He became what the Greek New Testament calls a hilasterion—the same word used in the Septuagint for the mercy seat. But there's a crucial difference: Jesus didn't just cover sin temporarily; He removed it permanently. His blood didn't just postpone judgment; it satisfied it completely. He didn't just make atonement for one year; He secured eternal redemption.
This is why the temple curtain was torn from top to bottom when Jesus died. The Holy of Holies—that sacred space where only the high priest could enter once a year with blood—was now accessible to all. The shadows had given way to substance. The types had been fulfilled by the reality. The endless cycle of sacrifice had been broken by the one perfect offering.

Here's where this becomes uncomfortably personal: If Christ's sacrifice was perfect and complete, why do we keep trying to add to it? Why do we live as if our good works, our spiritual disciplines, our religious activities somehow supplement what Christ accomplished on the cross?
The Jews had to keep offering sacrifices because their offerings were imperfect. But we often live as if Christ's offering was imperfect too—as if we need to keep "offering" ourselves through spiritual performance to maintain God's favor. This isn't humility; it's actually a subtle form of pride that suggests Christ's work wasn't quite enough.

To rest in Christ's sacrifice means to stop striving to earn what has already been purchased. It means believing that when God looks at you, He sees Christ's perfect righteousness, not your imperfect performance. It means trusting that your acceptance with God depends entirely on what Jesus did, not on what you do.
This doesn't lead to spiritual laziness—quite the opposite. When you truly grasp that you're loved and accepted based on Christ's work rather than your own, you're freed to serve God out of gratitude rather than guilt, out of joy rather than fear, out of love rather than obligation.
But be warned: this kind of rest is harder than it sounds. We're conditioned to earn our way, to prove our worth, to justify our existence through achievement. Resting in Christ's finished work requires a daily choice to trust His sacrifice over our striving, His blood over our works, His righteousness over our righteousness.

Identify one area where you've been "striving" spiritually—trying to earn God's approval through religious performance. Instead of working harder at that discipline today, spend time meditating on the completeness of Christ's sacrifice for you. Ask yourself: "How would I approach this differently if I truly believed I was already fully accepted by God?"