This is a companion blog to our Sunday message, “Deeper Through Sacrifice.” If you were with us on Sunday, consider this the bonus material. If you missed it, this will still meet you right where you are.

On Sunday, we explored a word that changed the way I understand everything about sacrifice. The Hebrew word korban, which we usually translate as “sacrifice”, doesn’t actually mean “something given up.” It means “something brought near.” A gift. An act of drawing close to the God who is already drawing close to you.

But there were two things I had to leave on the cutting room floor because of time. And they’ve been sitting with me all week. I think they’ll sit with you too.

Most of us grew up understanding sacrifice as a penalty. You sinned, you paid. God was angry, so you brought a lamb to calm Him down. Transaction complete.
But that’s not what Scripture actually describes.

The Hebrew word for sin is chata (pronounced haw-TAW). And here’s what’s fascinating, it’s not a religious term. It’s an archery term. It means “to miss the mark.” A sin is like an arrow that falls short of its intended target. Paul used this exact image when he wrote, “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23).

But it gets even richer. The Hebrew word for God’s instruction, His law, His Scripture, also comes from an archery term. The root word yarah means “to take aim.” So Scripture is the target we’re aiming for. Sin is when the arrow falls short of that target.

Now here’s the part that should reframe how you think about the sacrificial system. The sin offering, called the chattat in Hebrew, almost identical to the word for sin itself, was not a penalty for falling short. It was a means of purification after sin had been dealt with, repented of, and forgiven. Think of it less like a fine you pay at the courthouse and more like an apology gift you bring to someone you’ve hurt.

It didn’t earn forgiveness. But it was an appropriate gesture of humility, the worshipper’s way of saying: “I fell short. I know I fell short. And I’m bringing this gift as close to You as I can get because I want to be near You again.”

That’s korban in action. Drawing near, even after failure.

And here’s what should wreck every casual “nobody’s perfect” theology: Leviticus 4 tells us that even unintentional sins required a sin offering. You didn’t have to know you sinned. You didn’t have to mean it. The arrow still fell short. The offering was still necessary. God takes the gap between who we are and who He created us to be seriously, not because He’s petty, but because He’s holy. And He wants us close.

God Built an Economic On-Ramp

This is one of my favorite details in all of Scripture, and I wish I’d had time to unpack it on Sunday.

The sin offering wasn’t one-size-fits-all. Scripture prescribed different offerings depending on who sinned:

• If the high priest sinned,  he brought a bull.
• If the whole community sinned, the elders brought a bull.
• If a leader sinned, he brought a male goat.
• If an ordinary Israelite sinned, a female goat or lamb.
• If you couldn’t afford the goat or lamb,  two doves.
• If you couldn’t afford the doves,  flour.

Read that again. Flour.

God built an economic on-ramp into the sacrificial system. Nobody — not the poorest person in Israel — was too broke to draw near to God. The offering met you where you were.

If that doesn’t sound like the gospel, I don’t know what does.

The book of Ecclesiastes puts it plainly: “There is not a righteous man on earth who continually does good and who never sins” (Ecclesiastes 7:20). Everyone needs the offering. The priest. The king. The elder. The person reading this blog right now.

And the beauty of the cross is this: Jesus became the final chattat. The sin offering for every arrow that ever fell short. He didn’t just meet us where we were, He came all the way down to where we were and said, “I’ll cover the distance your arrow couldn’t.”

You were never too far gone. You were never too broke. You were never too much of a mess. The offering always met you where you were. And it still does.

There’s a story I wanted to tell on Sunday that captures what korban looks like when it puts on skin and walks into an ordinary Tuesday.

Jermaine Washington was twenty-six years old, working a regular job at the D.C. Department of Employment Services. He had a coworker named Michelle Stevens. They grabbed lunch together, talked during breaks, nothing romantic. Just two people becoming friends.

One day, Michelle broke down crying on Jermaine’s shoulder. She’d been on the kidney donor waiting list for eleven months. Three days a week, three hours a day, she was hooked up to a dialysis machine. Chronic fatigue. Blackouts. Joint pain that wouldn’t quit. Her mother couldn’t donate because of hypertension. Her two brothers said they loved her, but they were too afraid.

Jermaine later recalled his thought in that moment: “What was I supposed to do? Sit back and watch her die?”

So he gave her his kidney.

Not his wife. Not his sister. His coworker. A woman he described as “just a friend.”
The procedure was brutal. A catheter inserted into an artery in his groin. A fifteen-inch incision from his navel to the middle of his back. Five days in the hospital. And when people questioned his sanity, when they asked where he found the courage to give away a kidney, Jermaine’s answer silenced the room:

“I prayed for it. I asked God for guidance and that’s what I got.”

Nobody made Jermaine do that. It wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t obligation. He saw someone in pain and decided that his comfort was worth less than her life.

That’s not insanity. That’s korban. That’s bringing your very body near to save another.
And isn’t that exactly what Jesus did? He saw humanity in pain, hooked up to the dialysis machine of sin, slowly dying, with no compatible donor in sight, and He said, “I’ll give them Mine.”

Not because He had to. Because He wanted to draw near.

What About You?

I’m not asking you for a kidney. But as we head toward Easter, I am asking you this: What would it look like for you to give something that actually costs you?

Not a religious performance. Not a check-the-box fast. A real korban, something brought near to God that requires you to open your hands and trust that He’ll fill them with something better than what you released.

Maybe it’s volunteering somewhere that’s inconvenient. Serving in a ministry that doesn’t come with applause. Showing up for someone when showing up is the last thing you want to do. Blessing someone financially when the math doesn’t make sense, because God told you to and you’re willing to trust His provision over your calculator.

The writer of Hebrews puts it simply: “Do not neglect doing good and sharing, for with such sacrifices God is pleased” (Hebrews 13:16).

Not grand gestures. Doing good and sharing. The everyday, nobody-sees-it, this-costs-me-something stuff.

That’s what pleases God. That’s what brings Him delight. That’s the aroma that reaches heaven.