A Sacrifice of Sweetness

At the end of a church service, a smiling lady headed my way, and somehow I knew she was about to give me a compliment. I was a new, young pastor’s wife, trying hard to do everything exactly right, and I couldn’t wait to hear what she thought I was.

Capable? Clever? Creative? I would have settled for Cute. But this is what I heard: “Claudia, you’re just so . . .  sweet!”

I was deflated. Sweet sounded sappy, mushy, and gushy. I wanted to be strong. Sweet sounded weak.

I’m wiser now. Now, if you tell me I’m sweet, I’m honored beyond words. I have learned that God doesn’t need my competence or creativity, my abilities or brains. He has plenty of His own. What He loves to see in me is sweetness—not my temperament, but the sweetness of my obedience. It’s a striking picture in Scripture: the sweet savor of a sacrifice of obedience ascending to God, Who enjoys the aroma.

When Noah stepped from the ark onto dry ground, he built an altar to sacrifice the clean animals he had saved from the flood. The smoke of his burnt offerings carried the scent of the obedience of Noah, who built an impossible boat to preserve the seed of life from an unimaginable disaster, a man who for 120 years preached of coming judgment to people who thought he was an idiot. “The Lord smelled a sweet savor” rising from Noah’s altar (Gen. 8:21) and was pleased.

When Israelites brought God the sacrifices (animals, birds, grains, fruits, oils, spices, fats) He asked for, following His recipes carefully and presenting them when and how He commanded, God smelled the sweet aromas and smiled. But when those same offerings came from unconsecrated hearts, God held His nose. “I will not smell the fragrance of your sweet aromas,” He said (Lev. 26:31). It was not the enticing scent of smoking meat, roasting birds, or perfumed oils that God loved, but the sweet aroma of wholehearted obedience.

I can offer God my own sacrifices of obedience—not like the ones in the Old Testament, for those difficult demands of the ceremonial Law have ended. All I have to do now is accept as my own the sacrifice of the perfect Lamb, Who has “given Himself for us an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet-smelling savor” (Eph. 5:2).

And then I have the amazing privilege of being like Jesus Christ, offering up to the Father my own sweet savor offerings—the sacrifices of obedience.

The sweet sacrifice of praise

Let us offer the sacrifice of praise to God continually, that is, the fruit of our lips giving thanks to his name. (Heb. 13:15)

The Hebrew believers who read those words had already begun worshiping God in spirit and in truth rather than with temple offerings. Now they were asked to bring Him this sacrifice: praise.

It is strange to think of praise as a sacrifice, because it’s a joy to whisper our private thanks to the Lord. It’s thrilling to tell “His praise in the congregation of saints” (Psa. 149:1), to sing together that “the Lord hath done great things for us; whereof we are glad” (Psa. 126:3).

But what about when God hasn’t answered prayer the way you wanted and instead sent exactly what you didn’t want? What do you do with this command when everything in you is screaming, “NO, NO, NO”?

There’s no doubt about it: it’s God’s will for you to give thanks for everything, always (Eph. 5:20, 1 Thess. 5:18). So if you love Him, you will simply obey. You will praise Him when you want to pout. You will glorify Him when you feel like griping. You will give sincere thanks even for a gift you didn’t want. God knows how hard that is and accepts your praise as a sacrifice of obedience. A sweet aroma rises to heaven, better than any burnt offering could ever be, and He is pleased.

I will praise the name of God with a song and will magnify him with thanksgiving. This also shall please the Lord better than an ox or bullock that hath horns and hoofs. (Psa. 69:30-31)

The sweet sacrifice of love

This is my commandment, that ye love one another, as I have loved you. (John 15:12)

Love one another. That command is simple, but it’s not easy. Most of the people in your small world are loveable (likeable, at least). Others have weird, annoying personalities, and you would never have chosen them as friends. But God has moved them into your neighborhood, placed them at the next desk, or seated them beside you in Sunday school and the church choir. Some have shown up in your own family.

You can’t banish them just because you don’t like them, so you tolerate them. Once in a while you’re surprised to find a tiny sprout of love for them growing in your heart.

But other folks are a bigger challenge. They have declared themselves your enemies and delight in hurtling insults at you. What are you supposed to do about them?

Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them

which despitefully use you and persecute you. (Matt. 5:43-44)

That sort of undeserved, unreturned love is not easy; it’s hard. It’s not natural; it’s supernatural. When you love someone who doesn’t love you back, when you love them simply because you are determined to obey your Father, that’s a sacrifice. You are sacrificing your feelings—your fleshly inclination to despise the despicable and dislike the disagreeable. You sacrifice your plans for retaliation in favor of plans to bless them, do them good, and pray for them.

You are laying down your life for your enemies, as Jesus did. Your sacrifice of love rises as a sweet savor to God, better than all burnt offerings, and He is pleased.

And to love Him with all the heart, and with all the understanding, and with all the soul, and with all

the strength, and to love [your] neighbor as [yourself], is more than all whole burnt offerings and

sacrifices. (Mark 12:33)

The sweet sacrifice of giving

When your wallet is full of cash, putting money in the offering plate is a pleasure. When you have lots of time and loads of energy, it’s fun to look for ways and places to serve. But there’s a different kind of giving that’s  much more challenging because it’s sacrificial.

The Philippians gave this way when they sent gifts to Paul the apostle. He wrote them from his prison in Rome:

I have all, and abound: I am full, having received . . . the things which were sent from you, an odor of a sweet smell, a sacrifice acceptable, well-pleasing to God. (Phil. 4:18)

Food, clothing, money--what made these ordinary things a sweet savor offering to God is that these folks were not giving out of abundance. Instead, “their deep poverty abounded unto the riches of their liberality” (2 Cor. 8:2). Giving to Paul left them with bigger needs and smaller resources.

To deliver their gifts, Epaphroditus made the dangerous trek to Rome, a journey that demanded weeks or months. Arriving drained and spent, this “brother, and companion in labor, and fellowsoldier” was homesick and so ill he almost died. Beyond his own ability, he willingly served Paul (2 Cor. 8:3). His service, along with the gifts themselves, ascended to God as a sweet savor offering, and He was pleased.

Few of us are naturally sweet. We’re more often curdled, tart, disagreeable, resentful, even bitter. We know how to act pleasant most of the time but know it’s not from-the-heart sweetness. Inside we are like a toddler with a poochie lip.

Would you like to be sweet? Come back for the next blog post, and we will learn how to be sweet.