He Appeared Once — and That Once Was Enough for All Time

Every year on the tenth day of the seventh month, the high priest of Israel would rise early and begin a ritual so elaborate and so solemn that even a small mistake could mean death. He would bathe. He would dress in white linen. He would offer a bull for his own sins — because the priest himself was sinful and needed atonement before he could stand for the people. Then he would take two goats, cast lots over them, sacrifice one, and lay hands on the other — the scapegoat — confessing all the sins of Israel over its head before sending it into the wilderness.

He would enter the Most Holy Place with incense and blood. He would sprinkle blood on the mercy seat. He would do this once for the priesthood, once for the people. Then he would emerge, change his garments, and offer burnt offerings. It was an all-day affair, and when it was over, every person in Israel breathed easier — the debt was, for another year, acknowledged and covered.

And then next year they would do it again. And the year after. And every year for fifteen hundred years — because no single Day of Atonement was ever sufficient. The debt was only delayed, not removed. The blood covered; it could not cleanse. The ritual pointed; it could not accomplish.

Then Jesus appeared at the end of the ages. One cross. One sacrifice. One pouring out of blood that was not the blood of bulls and goats but the blood of the eternal Son of God. And when it was done — "It is finished" — there was no need to schedule next year's ceremony. No animal will ever again be led to an altar for the sins of humanity. The Day of Atonement has come and will not come again. The once-for-all sacrifice has been offered, and the once-for-all forgiveness has been secured.

Paul uses a specific image in Colossians that would have been immediately recognizable in the Roman world: the cheirographon, the "certificate of debt." When someone owed money they could not pay, the debt was recorded on a document — written in full, listing every obligation. If the debt was paid, the document was "nailed out," posted publicly to show it had been cancelled. If you could not pay, the document followed you.

Paul says God took that document — the record of our debts, the comprehensive accounting of every way we have fallen short — and he cancelled it. He set it aside. He nailed it to the cross. The Greek is graphic and legal: the certificate of debt was taken out of the way, removed from the path, eliminated as an obstacle. And then, at the cross, the spiritual powers and authorities that used that debt as their weapon of accusation were publicly disarmed and displayed as defeated.

This is what it means to "put away sin." Not to cover it temporarily, not to reduce the sentence, not to set up a payment plan — to cancel the debt document entirely. The certificate no longer exists. When the enemy comes with your sin list, there is nothing to present — because the document was nailed to the cross and voided by the death of the one it was nailed to.

That is the audacity of the once-for-all sacrifice. Jesus did not merely die for your sins; he abolished the legal standing of those sins against you. The court case is not ongoing — it was settled at Calvary. The verdict was announced when the stone rolled away: not guilty. Sin has been put away, and the one who put it away is seated at the right hand of God, alive forever, ensuring that the verdict holds.

"I lay down my life that I may take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord." Jesus says this to the Pharisees before the cross, and it is one of the most astonishing claims in the gospels. He is not a victim of circumstance. He is not surprised by the cross. He is going to it with intention, with agency, as the priest who has selected the sacrifice and is now voluntarily climbing onto the altar.

The soldiers do not capture him — he allows himself to be taken. In Gethsemane he tells Peter to put the sword away. He could call twelve legions of angels. He does not. He walks to Pilate. He walks to Golgotha. He is nailed to the wood. And then — and this is the moment — he gives up his spirit. The Greek is paradidōmi, the same word used for "delivered up": he actively handed over his spirit. He was not killed; he died. The distinction matters. The priest laid himself on the altar.

And what did this total self-giving accomplish? The author of Hebrews says it put away sin. Abolished it. Removed its legal standing. Purified the conscience. Opened the way into the Most Holy Place. Secured eternal redemption. One sacrifice of one person — but that person was the eternal Son of God, which means the sacrifice carries infinite weight.

The blood of a bull could not take away sins because a bull's life is finite. The blood of the eternal Son of God can take away sins because his life is infinite, his worth is boundless, and his voluntary self-giving is the most costly act in the history of the universe. "The sacrifice of himself" — three words that contain everything. He was enough. He is enough. He will always be enough.