One thing which seems to have been lost in our age is the idea of the sacred. We no longer consider things sacred, to be set aside for a holy purpose. Everything is common. Everything is approachable without consequence. Perhaps a graveyard is still considered “holy ground” or some ancient site of religious importance, but not much else. I remember, many years ago, officiating a wedding at Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Georgia. It was still an hour or so before the guests would show up, and I was busy putting the finishing touches on the sermon and ensuring I had everything lined up for the service. I wandered from my study into the sanctuary and was greeted by an unbelievable sight. The photographer was standing in the Chancel area rearranging things on the altar to make a more photogenic backdrop for the service. Now, I would like to tell you how I lovingly corrected them in their error, but what came out was more of a shout of condemnation at their audacity. Had they no idea what this space means to us? Did they even consider for a moment that they may actually have no right to even stand there, where God’s gifts are given weekly to His people? It may have just looked like a big book and some candlesticks, but to the people of God, it is so much more than that.

And I get it. Perhaps, I should not blame the photographer. We have done a lot to domesticate a transcendent God. Churches are far more comfortable than they used to be. The casual observer might easily conclude that no part of the space, no elements of the service are sacred. But that was not the case in the ancient Temple of the people of God. The Temple in Jerusalem, built after the plans of the Tabernacle, displayed a clear division between what is sacred and holy and what is common or unclean. In fact, the whole movement into the Temple was from the profane to the holiness of God. Along the way, there were sacrifices to be made as you neared the Holy of Holies, approached the set-apart place where God had promised to be for His people. And no one dared to even enter the Holy of Holies except for one day a year, on the Day of Atonement. Then, the High Priest would enter to sprinkle blood on the mercy seat of the Ark of the Covenant, to intercede on behalf of the people, and bring the proclamation of God’s forgiveness.

Imagine, if you will, living in the vicinity of such a place and acknowledging the sacred space here on earth where God did His work. It must have been quite a thing. While it certainly was a constant reminder that their God was not just a God far off and distant but a God who has come near and dwells in their midst, it was also a persistent expression of what is holy, and similarly an indication that you are not holy. To be unholy and to behold the holy place, even from afar, must have surely filled one with a sense of wonder and awe. What things must be there in the midst of the perfect things of God? How different it must be from our place, from where we live, from our lives of struggle and trial. I think having things that are beyond our grasp, places which are cut off from us, allows us to understand ourselves better.

In Isaiah chapter 6, we have the stunning account of Isaiah’s call into the prophetic office. In the year the king dies, he sees the true King, the King of kings is still sitting on His throne. He is high and lifted up, and the train of His glorious robe flows down the steps and fills the Temple. Above Him are the ancient guardians of the sacred space, the six-winged seraphim. Their voices boom and thunder out, shaking the very foundations of the Temple. They proclaim, one to the other, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory!” Here is the Lord of armies, here is the thrice holy God, here is the Creator of the heavens and the earth. And the Temple begins to fill with the smoke of the incense rising before Him. Isaiah is small and feeble in comparison. Isaiah realizes where he is and realizes he is in a place he ought not to be.

So, he does the only thing he can do. He gives up all hope. He throws himself at the mercy of the King and confesses. “Woe is me!” he cries out. “Woe is me! For I am lost!” I am undone. I am at my end. Why? Because “I am a man of unclean lips, and I dwell in the midst of a people of unclean lips; and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!” He is a sinner in the presence of the pure and holy God. Everything in him is exposed. There is nowhere to hide. Every sin, every unclean thought, every moment of pride and arrogance is suddenly thrown into the brilliant light of the Sacred.

And what happens next must have been terrifying. One of these sacred creatures who dwell in the presence of the Lord flies toward him. He holds a pair of tongs with which he had taken a burning coal from the altar. Surely, this is it. Here is when Isaiah dies, and justly so. After all, no sinner can see God and live. But instead of killing him, the coal is thrust to his lips, to the very thing which he confessed as unclean. The terrifying creature announces something stunning, “Behold, this has touched your lips; your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for.” Not death, not undoing, but atonement is given. It is the removal of his guilt, the forgiveness of his sin. The Holy God declares His unclean servant to be clean, set aside for His purpose.

When I was finishing my studies at the seminary in St. Louis, one Sunday, a handful of my friends from the rugby team I played on surprised me by coming to church. These were not men who made a practice of going to church, so I was both happy and a bit shocked to see them. They did their best to follow along with the church’s liturgy, and a few even tried to sing along with the hymns. Afterward, we went out for some beers, and they remarked that the beginning of the service was a bit of a downer. They were confused as to why we would begin that way. What they were talking about was the confession of sins. They found themselves saying how they sinned in thoughts, words, and deeds by what they had done and left undone, and they did not like it. It made them feel uncomfortable. To which I said, “Yeah, but you are sinners. I mean, I’ve hung out with you. You’re sinners in all those ways and more.”

But this is our strange practice, strange to a world which has forgotten the sacred and holy. We gather together to worship and receive the gifts of our God, and the service begins with the Invocation. The proclamation is made concerning who is doing the work here, in whose presence you are gathered. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the thrice-holy God is here. Therefore, there is only one option for you. Like Isaiah, you confess. And yes, you deserve death. You deserve condemnation because of your sin. But our holy God still does the surprising thing, the shocking thing that breathes hope and life into you. Atonement is proclaimed and your guilt is taken away in the blood of Christ. It is not a burning coal in the tongs of a terrifying creature, but perhaps something just as bizarre. It is a man, sent and ordained for just this purpose.

In the stead and by the command of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I forgive you all of your sins. You are made clean. Your sins are atoned for. You are forgiven. Consider yourselves now set apart and sacred, ready to answer the call of the Holy One, prepared to say, “Here am I! Send me.”