Day 46

Leviticus 1-3 | Romans 9:1-29

We’ve all heard the phrase “fire and flood.” People use it to describe chaos, usually with a smirk, because it’s never literal.

Except today. Today, it was literal.

There’s an atmospheric river over Central California this week, which means rain—lots of rain. So much that I could barely see my neighbor’s house through my office window earlier today. And while I love the sound of rain, our newest family member—Sadie, that sweet and angelic little yellow lab puppy—has quickly decided she does not.

Twice today, we went outside for her to do her business. Twice, she stared at the downpour, made a hard pivot, and ran straight back inside. Twice, she left me a little surprise on the tile floor instead. And that was just the beginning.

Because then came the flood.

Two inches of rain had fallen in the last twelve hours. My backyard drains couldn’t keep up. And since the original landscaper thought sloping synthetic grass toward the house was a great idea, water was pooling on my patio—creeping closer to my back door like it had an agenda.

Then the fire.

I was sitting in my living room chair, Bible open, starting today’s reading when I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. I looked up, and I kid you not—sparks were flying from the landscape light beneath the pomegranate tree behind my pool. Before I could even stand, flames erupted from the base of the tree.

I yelled, “There’s a fire!” as I jumped up, sprinted toward the garage for the fire extinguisher, then remembered I had left the garden hose in the pool. So I changed course and bolted outside. By the time I got there, thick smoke had filled the yard.

So there I was in the pouring rain—barefoot, in nothing but a T-shirt and basketball shorts, with only 80% of my fingers functional—trying to put out a fire that could have taken out the entire neighborhood. With a garden hose. A kinked garden hose. One that stretched across the pool, with the kink just out of reach, forcing me to yell for Talacey to unkink it before I could unleash my inner firefighter on the growing flames.

You can’t make this stuff up. It was a scene straight out of the movie Marley & Me.

And that brings us to Leviticus.

Leviticus opens with God’s instructions for burnt offerings—offerings that were required, that had to be done a specific way, and that were pleasing to Him. The fire that consumed those sacrifices wasn’t accidental. It was purposeful. Holy.

My backyard inferno? Not so much.

But it made me think—God’s fire always has a purpose. The burnt offerings in Leviticus pointed to something greater, a sacrifice that was yet to come. And that’s why Romans 9 fits so perfectly here.

Paul’s heart in Romans 9 is heavy. He’s wrestling with God’s sovereignty, with Israel’s rejection of Christ, with the hard truth that not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel. And then he lays down these words:

“So then it depends not on human will or exertion, but on God, who has mercy.” (Romans 9:16)

Not on our effort. Not on our striving. Not on our attempts to clean ourselves up or make ourselves acceptable.

Nothing but mercy.

The fire of Leviticus was a picture of the judgment we deserved. But the cross of Christ became the final burnt offering—the perfect, once-for-all sacrifice that took the flames in our place.

And if we are in Him, we are not consumed.

We are chosen.

“I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion.” (Romans 9:15)

It’s all grace.

And while my backyard nearly burned down today, I am reminded: the fire of God’s judgment will never touch me. Because it already touched Christ.

Lord, thank You that my acceptance before You depends not on my efforts, but on Your mercy. When I am tempted to rely on my own strength, remind me that You have already provided the perfect sacrifice. Keep me resting in Your grace. Amen.