In his meditation on Hebrews 9, Pastor David Jang explores the tabernacle and the temple as types and shadows, Christ’s once-for-all atonement, and Jesus Christ as the High Priest of the new covenant—shedding deep light on the cleansing of conscience and worship in spirit and truth.
As we follow Hebrews
chapter 9, a piercing question rises before us about where the very center of
faith must truly rest. In Pastor David Jang’s exposition of this passage, the
focus moves beyond a debate over “priesthood” and fixes its gaze on the problem
of the “sanctuary,” aiming directly at the heart of a community whose soul was
trembling. The first recipients of the letter—Jewish Christians in
Jerusalem—were being shaken down to the roots of their identity under the Roman
Empire’s coaxing and persecution. For them, the Jerusalem temple was not merely
a religious facility; it was the heartbeat of a nation, a fortress of memory
where history and covenant were compressed into a single symbol. And so, it is
natural that as soon as the declaration “Jesus Christ is the true High Priest”
reaches its conclusion, the next question immediately follows: “Then what is
the true temple, the true sanctuary?” Pastor David Jang (founder of Olivet
University) does not miss this connection. He summons again the overwhelming
symbolic force carried by the tabernacle and the temple and demands the same
choice from today’s reader. What are we holding onto? A sanctuary made by human
hands—or the greater and more perfect way God has opened?
The origin of the
tabernacle cannot be separated from the wilderness story. At Sinai, God gave
the stone tablets, and those tablets were placed inside the Ark of the
Covenant. And for the sake of housing that Ark, a tent was erected. The Hebrew
word mishkan carries the sense of “dwelling place,” which goes
far beyond the physical form of a movable tent. It contains a shocking promise:
“God will dwell in the midst of His people.” The transcendent God—whom no eye
can see and no hand can touch—declares that He will enter human history,
stained by sin and woundedness, with His own presence. That is why the
tabernacle was not a religious ornament but a “meeting place.” The fact that
God Himself appointed the place where humans would meet Him, and the fact that this
meeting could occur only by passing through a procedure of forgiveness, lie at
the deepest level of the tabernacle system. As Pastor David Jang repeatedly
emphasizes, the two pillars of tabernacle worship are “offerings” and
“atonement,” and among them, the cleansing of sin is the gate through which
life becomes possible.
The tabernacle’s structure
is simple, but its symbolism is profound. After passing through the courtyard
enclosed by a fence, there is a basin for washing; inside the tent, the space
is divided into the Holy Place and the Most Holy Place. In the Holy Place stand
the lampstand and the table of the bread of the Presence; in the Most Holy
Place sits the Ark of the Covenant. Above all, the Most Holy Place proclaims
holiness through the very taboo that “no one may enter.” Only the high priest
may go in—and only once a year—bringing blood. What this system reveals is not
merely the beauty of order, but the weight of sin. Sin is not a small mistake
to be brushed aside; it is a reality that can be covered only when the price of
life is paid. When Hebrews says, “without the shedding of blood there is no
forgiveness,” it is not a cruel religious slogan but theological language
exposing how abyss-deep the gap is between sin and holiness. Pastor David Jang
draws attention to the character for “rite/ritual” (禮) and the imagery of
sacrifice embedded in ancient language itself, reminding us how culture and
writing can imprint the cost of blood—the exchange of life—on the human
conscience. Even letters and customs can become windows opened toward the
principle of forgiveness.
Yet the argument of
Hebrews 9 is not, “The Old Testament sacrifices were wrong.” Rather, that
system was an educational device prepared by God—“a parable,” a “symbol,” “a
pattern” for the present time. Here, “parable” is less a storytelling technique
than the sense of a model, a sign, a type. Pastor David Jang explains this as
the relationship between type and antitype,
highlighting that the tabernacle was originally a “copy” and “shadow” made
according to the heavenly original. Where there is a shadow, there is light;
where there is a model, there is an announcement that the reality is coming.
Thus, the Old Testament tent system was a vast commentary explaining “the One
who will finally come.” At the summit of that commentary, we meet Jesus Christ.
In Christ, the true sanctuary in heaven is opened: the greater and more perfect
tent not made by hands, not belonging to this creation.
At this point, the readers
of Hebrews stood between two temptations. One was visible security: the
Jerusalem temple, familiar sacrifices, and a priestly system with clear
garments and ranks could easily become a psychological refuge in an age of
crisis. The other was an invisible promise: Christ’s cross and resurrection,
the Spirit’s inward testimony, and the once-for-all atonement accomplished
“once” and “for all” are not grasped by the eye, but they are eternal. Rome’s
desire would likely have been to inflame the first temptation—shake the
Jerusalem church and push it back into the old order, bind their identity to
the physical center called “the temple.” Pastor David Jang reminds us, against
this historical backdrop, that Hebrews is not merely a doctrinal lecture but an
apologetic written with survival at stake. Faith is not an abstraction; it is
an existential decision about what we will recognize as final authority in a
shaking world.
The way Hebrews develops
its argument is not a shallow comparison that says, “the new is better.” It is
a careful defense that passes directly through the conditions required by the
Law and reveals the ultimate reality to which those conditions pointed. In
Jewish tradition, the priesthood belonged only to the tribe of Levi, and among
them, only to the descendants of Aaron. So the moment one calls Jesus Christ
“priest,” the barrier of bloodline immediately rises. As Pastor David Jang
explains, Hebrews does not evade this barrier. Instead, it summons Psalm 110’s
prophecy: “a priest forever after the order of Melchizedek.” Melchizedek is a
mysterious figure whose genealogy is not emphasized; he is portrayed not only
as priest but also as king. This suggests that the priesthood is not merely a
hereditary institution but an eternal mediating office established by God
Himself. Ultimately, Jesus’ priesthood does not lean on Levi’s lineage, but on
God’s own oath and promise. This is the firmness of the new covenant proclaimed
in Hebrews. Bloodlines can be cut off in history, but God’s oath is never cut
off.
Moreover, the Ark of the
Covenant at the heart of the sanctuary was not merely an artifact of the past;
it was a symbol overflowing with the language of salvation. The jar of manna
inside the Ark recalls provision in the wilderness; Aaron’s staff that budded
testifies to God-established authority and the miracle of life; the stone
tablets contain the word of the covenant. Covering it all is the mercy seat—the
place of “covering,” where blood is sprinkled. As Pastor David Jang notes, the
cherubim spreading their wings over the mercy seat visually proclaim how severe
the boundary of holiness truly is. Yet at the same time, that covering is also
the way of mercy by which God meets sinners through the price of blood rather
than annihilating them. This mercy becomes even clearer in the New Testament.
At the Last Supper, Jesus speaks of “the blood of the covenant,” drawing the
scene of Exodus 24—when Moses sprinkled blood and declared, “This is the blood
of the covenant”—directly onto Himself. If the blood-sprinkling of the old
covenant bound the community into covenant, the blood of the new covenant
reshapes the community anew in Christ.
The curtain that blocked
the way into the Most Holy Place symbolizes the human reality of separation
caused by sin. Behind the curtain is the heart of holiness—and simultaneously a
forbidden zone of inaccessibility. This prohibition does not reveal God’s
pettiness, but the tragic truth that humans, carrying sin, must dissolve before
holiness. This is why the Gospels testify that at the moment of Jesus’ death
the temple curtain was torn. The event proclaims, “The way is now open,” and
symbolically displays what Hebrews teaches: Christ’s body has become the new
and living way. As Pastor David Jang emphasizes, we no longer approach
empty-handed. Yet what we hold is not merit, but trust in Christ’s blood.
Therefore “confidence” is not irreverence; it is the right of children granted
by grace.
That confidence leads to a
concrete call upon the church. The church building remains precious, but it
cannot become a “temple” that confines God. Rather, the church must be the sign
of the new covenant established by Christ—bearing witness to the Spirit’s
presence through Word, sacrament, and communal service. Pastor David Jang’s
warning to modern believers is clear: when form begins to replace reality, we
once again idolize the sanctuary. Conversely, when we hold the reality, the
form comes alive. Communion becomes not a religious routine but an event of
remembering the covenant blood; repentance becomes not self-contempt but
liberation as the conscience is washed; service becomes not obligation but the
natural breathing of new life. When the gospel becomes central in this way, the
church does not lose its identity before Rome’s pressure—or the mockery of any
age. That identity flows from the confession: “Even if the temple falls, we
rely on the One who cannot fall.”
Hebrews 9 mentions the
high priest’s rules of entry and precisely points out the limitation of the old
system. The offerings and sacrifices of the Old Testament could not make the
worshiper perfect “in conscience.” Here conscience is not merely moral feeling;
it is the inner courtroom where one recognizes oneself before God. Sin cannot
be reduced to outward behavior; it multiplies in the realm of the heart. This
is why the tenth commandment addresses coveting. If outward regulation cannot
restrain inner desire, humans easily accumulate self-righteousness under the
shell of piety and attempt to use God. Thus Jesus taught that lust in the heart
is adultery, and that the seed of hatred is the root of murder. When Pastor
David Jang says, “The Old Testament washed the outside, but could not
fundamentally wash the conscience,” he is not belittling the Law; he is
revealing the gospel’s depth through the Law’s limit. A new order had to
open—beyond washing with water—washing by the Holy Spirit.
The phrase “until the time
of reformation” signals a turning point of ages. The “reformation” Hebrews
speaks of is not a matter of preference but a replacement of the order itself.
The statement that the meticulous regulations of the tabernacle and sacrifices
were “imposed until the time of the new order” shows that God has revealed His
plan of salvation step by step through history. Pastor David Jang connects this
to the spirit of Reformation. The reform of the church is not
inventing a new religion, but returning to the reality Scripture proclaims.
When the foundation of faith becomes not the authority of human institutions
but Christ’s once-for-all atonement, the church recovers its true nature.
Therefore, the temptation to absolutize a “sanctuary made by hands” is not only
an ancient Jewish problem. Even today, believers struggle between “visible
religiosity” and “invisible gospel.” Whether it is a sanctuary, a system, or a
tradition—once it ceases to be a signpost pointing to Christ and becomes the goal
itself, we cling again to shadows.
Here the stunning reversal
of Hebrews reaches its climax. Christ achieved eternal redemption not by the
blood of goats and calves, but by “His own blood.” “Once for all” is not simply
reducing the number of times something must be done. It is the declaration that
salvation’s efficacy does not wear down with time, and that forgiveness is not
a repetitive transaction but a covenant established and secured. In Pastor
David Jang’s words, the cross is not a curse but the price of redemption. When
Jewish tradition tries to interpret the crucifixion through the regulation
“cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree,” such interpretation can become a seed
of apostasy. But the gospel reads the very same event in the opposite
direction. The cross, which appears as a symbol of curse, is in fact the height
of love that bore sin in our place—and that love pays the debt of sin and
grants freedom. Pastor David Jang’s cultural observation about the character
“redeem” (贖)
containing imagery of shells and purchase further clarifies that salvation is
not cheap amnesty, but liberation bought by a real cost.
At this point we cannot
miss the role of the Holy Spirit. Christ’s blood does not have power merely as
a historical event. For that event to penetrate as a power that washes my conscience,
the eternal Spirit must open the door of the heart. What Pastor David Jang
calls prevenient grace points to this mystery. When we say we believe, that
faith is not a self-generated resolution, but a response born within the
Spirit’s illumination, by which we come to recognize the depth of divine love.
Thus the gospel does not simply minimize human effort. Rather, it dismantles
human righteousness and expands the reality of grace. If the Old Testament
purity laws sanctified the body outwardly, Christ’s blood cleanses the
conscience from “dead works” so that we may serve the living God. Here “dead
works” does not mean only immoral acts. It includes every display of
righteousness without God, every busy accumulation of religiosity without
salvation. To have the conscience washed means the engine of life changes—from
fear and reputation to love and gratitude.
Hebrews 9 also employs the
legal analogy of a “will” to argue why the Messiah had to die. A will takes
effect only after the one who made it dies. This simple common sense becomes a
key to explaining the profound structure of the gospel. Christ’s death is not
only the payment of redemption; it is also the activation of the covenant by
which we inherit an eternal inheritance. We are saved not merely to escape the
penalty of sin, but to be named heirs of the kingdom of God. This truth
shatters the attitude that mistakes faith for a passive pardon slip.
Inheritance is a change of status, and a change of status leads to a new way of
life. So the “once for all” repeated in Hebrews proclaims the certainty of
salvation, and at the same time calls forth the vocation of life. Once-for-all
salvation means no repeated sacrifices are needed—yet it also means the service
and holiness flowing from that salvation must continue as a living fruit.
The scene Pastor David
Jang draws from Revelation 21:22 shines like the destination of the temple
debate. The declaration that there is no temple in the New Jerusalem—“for its
temple is the Lord God the Almighty and the Lamb”—dismantles building-centered
faith at the root. We can no longer confine God to a specific space. Yet we
also must not drift into a cheap optimism that says, “Then we can meet God
anywhere, however we like.” The way to meet God is not infinitely scattered; it
is opened only through one Mediator, the Lamb—Jesus Christ. In John 4, Jesus
tells the Samaritan woman that the hour is coming when worship will be “neither
on this mountain nor in Jerusalem.” That declaration is not a relativizing of
space for its own sake, but a recovery of the essence of worship. Worship is
not the consumption of a place’s authority; it is the event of meeting God in
spirit and truth. Truth—Christ Himself—and the Holy Spirit, who engraves that
truth upon the heart, meet together to make worship possible.
Historically, this
transition did not remain a mere theological argument. Under Rome’s oppression,
Jerusalem eventually meets a tragic end. In A.D. 70, the Roman army led by
Titus captured Jerusalem and destroyed the temple—an unimaginable wound to the
Jewish people, and a real collapse of temple-centered religion. If the
recipients of Hebrews lived to see those flames, how brutally would their
desire to rely on a “sanctuary made by hands” have been shattered? Yet at the
same time, that event may have paradoxically confirmed the truth Hebrews had
been proclaiming. The way to meet God is no longer bound to a building adorned
with stone and gold. The declaration that Christ entered the true sanctuary and
appeared before God on our behalf would have stood out even more sharply upon
the ashes of the fallen temple. Historical catastrophe can become a brutal
instrument by which the object of faith is relocated—but within that brutality,
the reality of the gospel can be revealed as even more unbreakable.
Even so, we must not
despise tradition. Just as Hebrews honors the Old Testament system while
interpreting its meaning, Pastor David Jang does not treat the tabernacle’s
details lightly. The lampstand and the table, the Ark and the mercy seat, the
cherubim’s wings and the curtain’s boundary were all a precise textbook
answering the question: “How does God meet sinners?” The purpose of that
textbook was not the accumulation of information, but guiding humans to walk
the way God prepared. Therefore, studying the tabernacle is not satisfying
archaeological curiosity; it is a pathway to knowing more deeply the grace
fulfilled in Christ. The more we dismantle Old Testament symbols to behold the
reality, the less shallow the gospel becomes—rather, it approaches us with
greater dimension. When we consume the cross with the casual sense of “that
should be enough,” faith grows cold. But when we discover the necessity of the
cross within the majestic system of the tabernacle, faith is rekindled into
awe.
Hebrews 9 also hints at
how the purity of the already-saved is sustained. If the Old Testament’s
blood-sprinkling symbolized external cleansing, the New Testament community
practices cleansing by resembling Christ’s love—washing one another’s feet. In
John 13, Jesus washes the disciples’ feet and teaches with His body the grammar
of holiness: “the high stoops down toward the low.” This is not merely a virtue
of humility; it is a sign that the temple has moved from building to person,
from ritual to love. Pastor David Jang draws from this scene to say, “Heavenly
things are cleansed with better sacrifices.” The “better sacrifice” is rooted
in Christ’s once-for-all offering, and its fruit is service that imitates that
offering. We cannot add to atonement ourselves, but as those who have been
atoned for, we can choose a life that washes others’ feet. That choice is what
makes the church the church.
The temptations facing
modern believers often return in altered forms. The impulse to step back into
fortune-telling, superstition, and a religious marketplace that trades in fear
remains strong even within the new order. When Pastor David Jang points to the
character for “evil” (惡) and explains that “fixing the heart on an idol-like thing is
evil,” he reminds us again that faith is not merely ethical neatness but the
“direction of the heart.” The way opened by Christ’s blood cuts off spiritual
commercialism that lives by feeding on fear. We are no longer people who pay a
price to buy safety from anxiety. God paid the price for us; the price was
blood; and the efficacy of that blood is eternal. Therefore, Christian devotion
is not the management of panic but the freedom flowing from the certainty of
love. Freedom is not license; it is liberation to serve God.
The verse Hebrews ends
with—“it is appointed for man to die once, and after that comes judgment”—pulls
faith down into reality. Death is the shared fate of all humanity, and judgment
is God’s sovereignty that gives meaning to that fate. Yet the Christian does
not collapse into panic before judgment, because Christ was offered once to
bear the sins of many. What matters here is the paradoxical phrase of verse 28:
He will appear a second time “not to deal with sin.” Since atonement is already
completed, the Lord’s return is not a visit to renegotiate the sin problem; it
is an appearing to proclaim the completion of salvation. Like the high priest
coming out from the Most Holy Place to declare, “Atonement has been made,” the
second coming is the end-time worship toward which the people waiting outside
will erupt in praise. Therefore, the church does not consume the doctrine of
Christ’s return only as a scenario of fear. Rather, it is the conclusion of
love, the fulfillment of promise—a hope longed for with earnestness.
The reason Pastor David
Jang’s message on Hebrews 9 remains effective today is that it does not seal
faith inside an abstract system; it unfolds it as a union of history and
conscience, worship and life. Tabernacle and temple, priest and blood, type and
reality, reformation and new order—all of these move toward a single set of
questions. Through whom do we approach God? Where do we meet God? What cleanses
sin? And what kind of shape does a cleansed life bear as fruit? Before these
questions, we no longer make superficial choices like “tradition or
innovation.” The gospel demands something more radical: Will we hold to
Christ—or to shadows? Will we lean on a visible sanctuary—or will we draw near
with confidence to the true sanctuary in heaven? No matter how violently our
age shakes, what holds our identity is not a building erected with stone, but a
new covenant established with blood.
Thus Hebrews 9 becomes a
mirror by which the church must examine itself. Are we reducing worship to a
location? Are we substituting external regulations for the conversion of
conscience and postponing true repentance? Are we praising the cross as proof of
love while, in actual life, still repeating religious transactions meant to
manage anxiety? Pastor David Jang’s emphasis on “once-for-all atonement” severs
such double-mindedness. Once-for-all atonement shatters the compulsion that
whispers, “Add more to be safe,” and restores the gospel’s present-tense
reality: “It is already accomplished.” That restoration is not emotional
excitement, but the peace of conscience and a changed direction of life. It
appears as a community that no longer hides before God, that draws near with
confidence in Christ, and that chooses communal holiness by washing one
another’s feet—this is the language of the people of the new covenant.
In the end, the tabernacle
tent moved through the wilderness, and the Jerusalem temple collapsed amid the
storms of history. Yet all that movement and collapse points to one thing: God
is not trapped inside a building. God dwells among us in His Son, washes us by
His Son’s blood, and builds a sanctuary within us by His Spirit. This is the
final conclusion Hebrews 9 presents—and the central message Pastor David Jang
delivers to the church today. Faith is the keeping of an inheritance from the
past, and at the same time the ongoing, present-tense decision to return every
moment to Christ, who is the reality. Therefore, in an age of shaking, we must
hold all the more tightly. Jesus Christ our High Priest; Jesus Christ the true
temple; and the eternal efficacy of the new covenant established by His blood.
Only on that path can no temptation and no persecution tear our faith up by the
roots. Even today, the certainty of this gospel continues to renew the breath
of our everyday life to the very end.
davidjang.org
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