“RULES” FOR WORSHIP
Hebrews tells us that “the first covenant had ordinances of divine service and the earthly sanctuary” (Hebrews 9:1), and in that single sentence the Spirit paints an entire landscape of worship bound by ritual. Under Moses the people came to God through shadows—careful washings, repeated sacrifices, appointed feast days, prescribed garments, and a tabernacle arranged down to the smallest detail. Nothing was left open, nothing was left free, nothing was left to the heart’s own movement toward God.
It was all holy, yes, but all temporary; it was all meaningful, but all incomplete. Their worship had weight, yet it was the weight of something waiting—waiting for Christ to come and fill every symbol with substance.
The sanctuary itself was earthly, framed in wood and gold, and though the glory of God brushed its curtains, the people themselves stood outside. A priest carried their prayers where they could not go, and a veil whispered to every worshipper that God was near, but not yet open to them.
Even the high priest, moving behind that veil once a year, did so with trembling, for the blood he brought was never enough to finish anything. It covered sin, but did not cleanse the conscience; it opened the way for a moment, but never truly welcomed the worshipper inside. Every sacrifice preached the same sermon: not yet.
Then Hebrews turns a page and the scenery changes because “Christ came as High Priest of the good things to come” (Hebrews 9:11). He did not adjust the system; He ended it. He did not walk through the veil; He tore it. The rituals did not shift—they found their fulfillment. The shadows did not deepen—they disappeared in the rising of the Son.
The old covenant gave patterns; Christ gave presence. In Him we are not kept at a distance; we are brought near. We do not wait for another to carry our praise; we come boldly ourselves (Hebrews 10:19–22). We do not offer blood that cannot cleanse; we rest in the blood that cleanses us completely (Hebrews 9:14). Everything the old covenant hinted at, Jesus completed in Himself.
Think of it this way: a child may spend years tracing the outline of a father’s face in a photo, but when the father returns home, the tracing falls from the child’s hands and the child climbs into his arms. The rituals were the tracing; Christ is the Father’s embrace.
Or imagine a traveler who once followed candlelight through a narrow passage, watching every step, but suddenly steps into the sunrise—the candles are not wrong; they are simply outshined. The old covenant led us by candlelight; Jesus calls us into the dawn.
Now worship is no longer rule-driven; it is life-driven. We do not return to incense recipes, holy garments, altars of bronze, or ceremonies repeated week after week. Worship is no longer something we perform; it is something we are. Our bodies are the living sacrifices (Romans 12:1), our hearts the true mercy seat, our lives the temple where God dwells (1 Corinthians 3:16).
We glorify God not by keeping a ritual checklist but by letting every good thing become an offering—our work, our rest, our songs, our conversations, our service, our quiet trust. And because Christ has opened the way fully and forever, we glorify God in any good way our redeemed hearts rise to Him, knowing that in Jesus the veil is gone, the distance is removed, and the life of worship is simply the life lived with God.
BDD
