By Russ Johnson
It all started with a couple of fig leaves.
Adam and Eve ate from the one tree they were told to leave alone, realized they were naked, and went scrambling for something to cover themselves. Then they hid. And God came looking for them.
Eventually, Genesis tells us, God made garments of skin and clothed them. (Genesis 3:21)
If you grew up around church, you've probably heard what that means.
An innocent animal had to die. Blood had to be shed. Because even in Eden, God couldn't forgive sin without a sacrifice.
There's just one problem: Genesis doesn't say that.
It doesn't mention blood or describe a sacrifice. It says God clothed them. An animal likely died to provide the skins. But the rest of that explanation? We brought it to the story.
Which raises a question: What else have we brought to the story of God?
To answer that, we need to remember the world these stories came from. For thousands of years, people imagined distant, demanding gods and tried to figure out what they wanted and how to keep them happy. Sacrifice was the arrangement.
Some believed the gods depended on what humans supplied. Others wanted protection, forgiveness, or a good harvest. Either way, the deal was the same: Give the gods what they want, and hopefully they'll give you what you need.
That was the world Abraham knew. The world Moses knew. The world Israel came out of. And into that world came the God unlike anything they'd imagined.
But here's where things get confusing.
If you've read the Old Testament, you know there's an awful lot of blood. Lambs, goats, bulls. Enough slaughter to make a butcher consider another profession. And the instructions are remarkably specific. What to bring. Where to bring it. What to do with the blood.
Yes, Scripture says God gave those instructions. So was he really any different from the gods everyone else was imagining?
Before we answer, consider the night Israel left Egypt.
After generations of slavery, God was about to bring his people out. First came the final plague, the death of Egypt’s firstborn. God told the Israelites to slaughter a lamb, eat it together as a family, and put its blood on their doorframes. When judgment came, those homes would be spared. (Exodus 12:1–13)
This wasn’t a meal for God. It was a meal for people with their sandals on, ready to walk out of slavery.
But why the blood? God called it a sign. And he promised to spare the homes it marked. But he’d already told them they would be free.
Did God need blood to recognize his own people? Or was it a sign for them of the rescue already underway?
As Israel’s story unfolds, the God who met them in their world of offerings starts nudging them beyond it.
In Psalm 50, he reminds his people that every animal already belongs to him. Then comes this little gem: "If I were hungry I would not tell you, for the world is mine, and all that is in it." (Psalm 50:12)
And just in case they missed the point: "Do I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats?" (Psalm 50:13)
Apparently, the Creator of the universe isn't waiting around for somebody to fix him dinner.
Through Hosea, God says, "I desire mercy, not sacrifice." (Hosea 6:6) Through Jeremiah, he says his central concern when he brought them out of Egypt wasn't burnt offerings, but that they listen to him and live as his people. (Jeremiah 7:22–23)
Now hold on. The same God who gave instructions for sacrifices says he doesn't need them?
Maybe God didn't change his mind. Maybe we've misunderstood what he was doing all along.
Six centuries later, John gives us a clue: "No one has ever seen God, but the one and only Son ... has made him known." (John 1:18) That includes Abraham. Moses. David. The prophets.
They weren't fools. They caught real glimpses of him. But none had seen the Father for who he truly is.
And God was patient. Meeting people inside the only world they knew, leaving breadcrumbs that would eventually lead to his showing up.
Not two different Gods. One God, coming into focus. You can see it in how Scripture speaks of him. God is called Father only about fifteen times in the Old Testament, but more than 250 times in the New. Not because God changed. Because Jesus revealed him.
Jesus himself shows us how he works. When religious experts questioned him about divorce, he said, "Moses permitted you to divorce your wives because your hearts were hard. But it was not this way from the beginning." (Matthew 19:8)
Something could be permitted in the law without being what God wanted from the beginning.
Then comes a wonderful scene.
Jesus is having dinner with tax collectors and sinners, people whose lives weren't exactly advertisements for religious success. When the religious experts complain, he tells them: "Go and learn what this means: 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.'" (Matthew 9:13)
There it is again. Only now the one saying it is God himself, sitting at the table with people everyone thought needed to clean up first.
He wasn't waiting for them to become acceptable. He was already there.
Years later, Paul stood in Athens, surrounded by temples and offerings, and declared that God "is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything." (Acts 17:25)
Anything.
And suddenly, those old stories look different.
In Eden, God clothed people hiding in shame. In Egypt, he gave enslaved families a meal on their way to freedom. Through the prophets, he insisted he wasn't hungry. And in Jesus, the Father sat down with people who had nothing impressive to bring.
What if the story was never about getting God to give us what we need by first giving him what he wants? What if he was the giver all along?
Here's why that matters.
You may never have brought a lamb to an altar. But there's a good chance you've spent years bringing God something you hoped would keep him happy.
A better attitude. A cleaner record. More prayer. Less doubt. Another promise to finally get your act together.
And when you fail, you bring your guilt. A little misery to show you're taking the whole thing seriously.
Because somewhere beneath all the language of grace, you still suspect God needs something before he can be pleased with you.
So you keep making offerings.
And the cruel joke is that even when you believe Jesus made the final sacrifice, you can spend the rest of your life trying to make sure it wasn't wasted on you.
Which brings us back to the altar.
The sacrifices had a purpose. Supplying God with something he needed wasn't it. Hebrews tells us those sacrifices could never make people whole. (Hebrews 10:1–4)
Yet Hebrews calls Jesus' death a sacrifice.
Which ought to make us wonder: If God never needed what people brought to their altars, what was he doing on one himself?
Maybe the sacrifice of Jesus isn't what we've imagined. Which raises a rather important question:
Why the cross?