“Sacrifice and offering you have not desired,” we hear in today’s scripture, and so the response is, “Behold, I come.”

That is the language echoing through today’s Gospel: Behold, I come. Behold, the Lamb of God.

I want to share with you some words that are inscribed beneath a particular statue located in a quaint little town called Sterling, Massachusetts. Has anyone here ever been to Sterling, Massachusetts? No? That’s all right, I haven’t either. But it plays well with the Gospel. The statue depicts a little girl, and at her feet is a small lamb. Beneath it is an inscription. When I read it, your mind may wander, and you may even find yourself humming along.

It begins:
Mary had a little lamb,
its fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went,
the lamb was sure to go…
But then it continues:
He followed her to school one day,
that was against the rule.
It made the children laugh and play
to see a lamb at school.
And so the teacher turned it out,
but still it lingered near,
and waited patiently about
till little Mary did appear.
Then comes the question the children ask:
“Why does the lamb love Mary so?”
And the teacher replies,
“Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know.”

Do children still sing this today? I see a few heads shaking, probably not. But even so, it remains a tender reminder of relationship and love, of companionship. Mary and the lamb. Not owner and animal, but companions. That word matters because when we turn to Scripture, lambs do not usually fare so well. If you read the Bible closely, lambs are sacrificed. Their blood is splashed upon altars. From Abraham onward, lambs become instruments of ritual devotion. They are offered to God, burnt offerings, sin offerings, tokens of atonement.

And yet, when I look at this statue, at this fragile and loving relationship, my mind goes in all kinds of directions, especially here, in this space, where an offering is made every time we gather for worship.
Psalm 40 tells us something astonishing: “Sacrifice and offering you do not desire… burnt offerings and sin offerings you have not required. Then I said, ‘Behold, I come.’” God is saying: I am done with this system. So let me tell you another story, so we understand what burnt offerings and sin offerings once meant. Do you remember Abraham and Sarah? Old, childless, wandering as a small nomadic clan. They were herders, of sheep, goats, lambs. These animals were sustenance, livelihood, and companions. Because Sarah could not bear a child, a custom took place that is difficult for us to imagine today. Abraham fathered a child with Sarah’s maidservant, Hagar. She conceived but fled into the wilderness and gave birth to a son, Ishmael. Later, God blessed Sarah with a child of her own, Isaac. Two sons. Two mothers. A fractured household.
Eventually, Sarah insisted that Hagar and her child be sent away. Abraham gave them water and food and sent them into the wilderness, heartbroken, but compliant. This story shaped Israel’s understanding of sin and separation. From it grew rituals: one lamb sacrificed, its blood offered to God. Another lamb, the scapegoat, sent into the wilderness, carrying the sins of the people.
One burned.
One banished.
Both lost.

We even hear the language today, scapegoat, someone or something burdened with what we refuse to carry ourselves. Think how strange this is. We live with animals, dogs, cats, rabbits, companions. We would never dream of sacrificing them. God finally says: Enough. “I did not create this world so that love would be expressed through violence,” God says. “What I want is your attention, your heart. I want you to let go of what pulls you away from me.” That is why John the Baptist’s words matter so much. Standing at the Jordan, he does not say, “Here is a great teacher.” He does not say, “Here is a prophet with answers.” He says: “Behold, the Lamb of God.” Not a lamb to be sacrificed again and again but the Lamb who ends sacrifice. Jesus enters the world to carry what we cannot, to absorb sin, violence, fear, and death, not by deflecting them onto another creature, but by taking them into himself.

Go back to Mary and her lamb. Where Mary went, the lamb followed. No coercion. No fear. Just love. That is the image John gives us. The Lamb of God follows us, into confusion, into doubt, into places we ask, “How did I get here?” And when we see him, we are reassured. Every time we come to the altar, we are reminded: we are not back in the days of Abraham and Samuel. There is no blood splattered here, yet there is blood. Not repeated. Not demanded. But given once, fully, freely. When the children ask, “Why does he follow you so?” The answer is simple: “Because he loves you.” It is not complicated We make it complicated. We cling to distractions. We grip what we cannot release. We convince ourselves that holiness is something to be earned or repaid. But Jesus comes as the Lamb of God and says:

Behold.
No more burnt offerings.
No more scapegoats.
Only love that follows you, everywhere you go.