No one takes this honor on himself; instead, a person is called by God, just as Aaron was. —Hebrews 5:4
When a man was selected to be a high priest, it must have been an awesome honor. Here was a mortal given the privilege to ritually enter God’s presence and represent His people to the face of the Almighty. However, before the high priest was allowed to proceed with his spellbinding duties, he was required to “make an offering for his own sins” (v. 3).
The challenge of being a good dad—the high priest of your family—is a big one. There have been times when I was a sloppy father, not deserving of any honor at all.
One Saturday morning when my daughters were young, I had the chance to watch my girls while my wife was away. I assured her I would have everything under control. How hard can it be to babysit the girls for a few hours? I figured.
Over the years, I’ve discovered that many dads think of an assignment like “keep an eye on the kids” the same way they would regard a request to “keep an eye on the smoke alarm.” If it’s not wailing at plaster-cracking decibels, it must be OK.
That Saturday morning I was one of those dads.
I was in the garage, sharpening the blade on my lawn mower. The girls were in the front yard with a friend. Except for an occasional happy squeal, I heard nothing. All was well.
After a while, Missy came into the garage to retrieve the stroller. Their game had lost its charm, and she and Laura were going to take little Julie for a ride. “Be careful,” I warned without even looking up from my blade-sharpening.
The next game the girls played was called “Let’s-take-the-stroller-to-the-top- of-our-steep-driveway-and-see-how-fast-we-can-get-this-thing-going”—with Julie still on board, of course. Oblivious to the girls’ new game, I continued to file away. My lawn mower blade was looking good. This thing will take out small trees, I proudly admired.
Missy stood at the top of the driveway. Laura waited at the bottom to keep Julie and the stroller from flying into the street. After a few breakneck voyages down the hill, Julie decided to get creative. She jammed her sneakers onto the asphalt, sending her cartwheeling face-first all the way to the bottom of the driveway. The smoke alarms began to wail. By the time I reached the girls, they were both out of control. Missy was there, but their friend had vanished.
Julie, still partially in the stroller, was lying on her side, her nose and lips bleeding. I knelt next to her, sheer panic sweeping over me. I wonder if she’ll heal up before Bobbie gets back? I tried to comfort Julie who was semiconscious, reassuring her that she was “all right.” (Dads are famous for saying stuff like this.)
I’m a dead man, raced through my mind. How will I ever explain this to Bobbie? The truth is, I had failed. When Bobbie got home, she let me have it. I asked her to forgive me. She was too busy tending to Julie. I felt awful.
Even the highest-ranking priest was a sinner. And before he assumed his appointed role, he had to confess his own failure and lack of qualification to do this job.
You’ve got a huge job ahead of you—the high priest of your home. As ready as you might think you are to lead this family, you’ve got some of your own failure to confess. Now you know what to do.