The Priest

Zechariah 3

She came into the pool barefoot, straight from the men’s bathroom. No one stopped her. No one even seemed to notice. But I did. I had just been in that bathroom—with its sticky and stinky tiles. And now she was splashing around, giggling in the shallows, unknowing—or maybe uncaring—that she was bringing the filth in with her.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It reminded me of what it feels like to live in this world. We are immersed in impurity, surrounded by brokenness. Some of it sticks to us just because we live here. But some of it, if we’re honest, comes from inside us: anger. lust. bitterness. pride. We carry this with us. We track it into relationships. Into our thinking. Even into worship.

We don’t need to be told that we’re unclean. We can feel it.

So how do we approach a holy God? How can people like us—with all the grime and guilt we carry—be welcomed into His presence?

I found incredible encouragement in a vision from the prophet Zechariah.

Filthy clothes

Zechariah’s people were returning from exile—a seventy-year consequence of rebellion, idolatry, and injustice. Yet God had not abandoned them. He was faithful to His promises, faithful to His covenant. After a sabbath rest for the land, He brought them home. Among those returning was Joshua, a descendant of the high priestly line, who became the subject of Zechariah’s startling vision.

In this vision, Joshua stands before the doorway to the temple—the threshold of God’s house. It wasn’t merely an entrance; it was a courtroom, where God’s throne met the earth. But Joshua isn't alone. To his right is the angel of the Lord. And beside him stands the accuser.

Joshua stands at the entrance, completely filthy.

As Zechariah’s dream draws back the curtain, we see Joshua clearly. Not a mere smudge or a stain—he is clothed in garments soaked with filth. He stinks of death, exile, and failure. These clothes bear the marks of Babylon’s defilement and the stains of his own sin—his compromise, guilt, and shame. Zechariah describes him vividly: like a burning stick pulled from the fire—blackened, brittle, lifeless.

Joshua was no ordinary man. He was the high priest. He was supposed to enter the Holy of Holies, to stand before God on behalf of the people, interceding, blessing, and leading the way into God’s presence. Yet here he stands, silent and unworthy.

The accuser doesn’t need to invent evidence. He simply points: Look at him. Look at his clothes. How could Joshua possibly enter?

It’s like the girl tracking filth into the pool. Joshua is about to carry death and defilement into God's presence. Of course he can’t be allowed into the Holy of Holies—he would contaminate everything he touched. He wasn’t just dirty; he was dead. And death has no place in God’s house.

Clothed by Grace

Yet, here the surprise unfolds.

God doesn’t listen to the accuser. He doesn’t weigh the argument or ask Joshua to defend himself. Instead, He simply speaks: "The Lord rebuke you, Satan! The Lord, who has chosen Jerusalem, rebuke you!"

This is grace.

God’s choice precedes Joshua’s cleansing. But this choice is not merely individual—it’s corporate. Joshua doesn’t stand alone; he represents the entire community. God had chosen Jerusalem, His covenant people, and now acts faithfully according to that choice. His rebuke of Satan is rooted not in human performance but in divine promise. Even after their failure, God keeps His word. He never abandons those on whom He sets His love.

Then comes the transformation: "Take off his filthy clothes," the Lord commands. And then, turning directly to Joshua, He says: "See, I have taken away your sin, and I will put fine garments on you."

This isn’t a moral improvement plan. This is sheer mercy. It echoes the Exodus, where blood on the doorposts caused God to pass over His people’s sin. It recalls the prodigal son, whose father ran to embrace him with a robe and ring before he could even finish his apology. Joshua is not treated as his sins deserve—instead, God removes them entirely.

Zechariah can’t contain himself: “Put a clean turban on his head!”

This detail is crucial. The turban symbolizes the priest’s consecration, bearing a gold plate inscribed: Holy to the Lord. It reminded both the people and God Himself that the priest belonged to Him, set apart to serve in His house. The turban connects powerfully with two moments in Israel’s history: the priesthood’s initial consecration (Exodus 28) and the Day of Atonement (Leviticus 16).

Zechariah’s request is not simply about attire—it’s about restoring Joshua’s priestly role. With a clean turban on his head, Joshua can again enter God's holy presence. He can perform atonement rituals, bring God’s holiness to the people, and enable them to dwell safely and joyfully in God's presence once again—without fear.

Walking in Obedience

Then comes a charge, followed by a stunning promise (vv. 6–7). Joshua is called to walk in God’s ways, to keep His requirements. This obedience is not the foundation of his salvation but the response to it. Grace always comes first. Obedience flows from grace. Joshua is not saved by keeping the law; he is saved so that he can walk in obedience.

The promise attached to this call is staggering, echoing God’s great covenantal promises to Abraham, Moses, and all His people. If Joshua walks faithfully, he will not merely govern God’s house and lead His courts—he will be given a place among God’s heavenly council. God offers him permanent residence in His presence—a home, not just a temporary visitation. He will become a channel of blessing.

Like Adam in Eden, Joshua is being welcomed into God’s garden-temple and entrusted with a role within it. He isn’t merely rescued. He’s given responsibility, purpose, and fellowship. Grace restores Joshua and places him exactly where humanity was always meant to be—in God's presence, sharing in His work.

The Branch and the Stone

But Zechariah’s vision isn’t done yet. As powerful as Joshua’s restoration is, it points beyond itself. God is promising something even greater—the climactic moment of human history: “Listen, I am going to bring my servant, the Branch.”

The contrast with Joshua is striking. Joshua is a burning stick—damaged, charred, and lifeless. But the coming One is a Branch—alive, fruitful, and planted by God Himself. This Branch is the Messiah, foretold in Isaiah: "A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit." (Isaiah 11:1)

Where Joshua was rescued from fire, this One will give life. Where Joshua was clothed by another, this One will clothe others in righteousness. Where Joshua symbolically carried sin, the Branch will actually remove it, becoming a tree of life whose leaves bring healing to the nations.

Then Zechariah sees something else: God places a stone before Joshua. Commentators debate the exact meaning, but in the context of temple restoration, it signifies a cornerstone laid by God Himself. This stone isn’t merely foundational—it’s divinely marked, watched by heaven’s perfect vision (symbolized by its seven eyes), indicating complete and sovereign oversight. God is laying the cornerstone for a new temple—not built with hands, but formed by His grace and presence—a temple where heaven meets earth, where real atonement is accomplished, and where humanity can finally and fully commune with God.

The Garden Restored

Finally, the most astonishing promise emerges: “I will remove the sin of this land in a single day.”

One day. Not a repetitive yearly sacrifice. Not an ongoing daily priesthood. One day—a decisive, final cleansing. From that day forward, the land will no longer bear the stain of sin; it will instead overflow with peace.

One would come—not merely to wash garments, but to cleanse dirty feet, to purify the paths we walk, so that we might again stroll joyfully in God’s garden. What began as a courtroom filled with accusation and guilt now ends as a promise of reconciliation. Ashes give way to flourishing gardens. This is grace upon grace!

The vision ends with a beautiful picture of fig trees and vines (v. 10). God’s people are gathered, sitting in restful community, experiencing profound peace, as they dwell in His presence once more. Eden restored. This has always been the trajectory of God's plan.

Zechariah’s vision vividly declares four central truths:

• Sin is real and devastating. It defiles, excludes, and kills.

• God’s grace is greater than our sin. He doesn't wait for us to cleanse ourselves—He acts decisively, cleansing, clothing, and consecrating us.

• God’s grace leads to a transformed life. Having received grace, we can now live obediently and righteously, bringing blessing to those around us.

• God is faithful to His promises. The Branch will come. The stone will be laid. Sin will be removed. He will lead us home.

Until that day, every act of obedience—every sacrifice Joshua made, every prayer spoken, every temple visit—was an act of faith. Each moment rehearsed and declared God’s unwavering promise: the Branch would appear, the cornerstone would be laid, and burned sticks would be made new.

And now, we know that promise has come.

The Garden - Exiled

When we revisit Zechariah’s vision—not from top to bottom, but now from bottom to top—we see clearly how it points us forward to one man: Jesus.

Joshua and his descendants were graciously restored, given a fresh start. Yet, history reveals their continued failure. They were unable to maintain faithful obedience. But God’s promises were not nullified by their failures. The promises He made—to send a Branch, to remove sin in a single day—stood firm. Even amidst human failure, God’s greater purpose pressed forward.

In Jesus, those promises explode into breathtaking reality.

There has been only one person perfectly obedient to God. Only one who embodied true holiness—not merely external rituals but inward purity. One who, like Joshua, stood in God’s presence, but unlike Joshua, stood there clothed in perfect righteousness and eternal glory. Jesus, our true High Priest, deserved the garden’s peace and presence promised in Zechariah’s vision. Yet, He chose exile. He left His home, stepping into our broken world.

Jesus left His heavenly garden, His eternal dwelling of fig trees and vines, to live among us. Where we had been cast out, He willingly entered exile.

The Branch and the Stone - Revealed

In His incarnation, Jesus became the very Branch and Stone Zechariah foresaw. He is the Branch foretold in Isaiah: “A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.” (Isaiah 11:1)

Yet He is more than just a branch; He is like the Tree of Life itself. Where Adam failed in the garden, and Israel failed in the land, Jesus becomes the fountainhead of new creation. Life pours out of Him, and through Him a renewed garden blossoms—filled with fruitfulness, healing, and grace.

Jesus is also the Stone placed by God—a cornerstone for a new kind of temple. Not constructed from wood or stone, this temple is made of people, a living community where God dwells with humanity. Though rejected by many, Jesus became the cornerstone. Psalm 118 speaks vividly of this stone—rejected by builders but chosen by God—and it is marvelous in our eyes.

Walking in Obedience - completely

How could Jesus become the promised Branch and the foundational Stone? Because He alone perfectly fulfilled the calling first given to Joshua. He obeyed where others failed, keeping God’s commands not merely in outward form, but deeply, inwardly, from the heart. His obedience flowed from love and perfect submission to the Father’s will.

Because of this, He alone earned the right to stand before God, to enter the true Holy of Holies, and to represent us perfectly. Every step He took, every action He performed, every word He spoke was saturated with obedience, holiness, and grace. In Him alone, God’s law found its perfect fulfillment.

Clothes of grace - removed

Yet, the perfect High Priest did something utterly unexpected. Instead of claiming His rightful place, He surrendered it. He who wore garments of divine glory—robes of eternal majesty and holiness—laid them aside. The One who wore “Holy to the Lord” across His brow humbled Himself, removing His radiant clothing and dressing instead in servanthood. Spotless and blameless, He willingly wore our filthy garments—the clothes stained by sin, anger, lust, pride, and shame.

And clothed in our sin, He was cast out, accused by the accuser. He stood silently, offering no defense, no protest. Like a lamb before its shearers, He did not open His mouth.

He was not rescued from the fire; He endured it fully. He was not spared exile; He willingly embraced it. Jesus bore the full weight of God’s righteous wrath, absorbing the penalty so that we—filthy and guilty—might be clothed instead in His righteousness. Paul captures this stunning exchange beautifully: “God made Him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in Him we might become the righteousness of God.” (2 Corinthians 5:21)

The garments of glory Jesus laid aside are now offered to us. The accuser’s case collapses entirely because the blood of Jesus is enough. The temple’s door is permanently opened. Garments of righteousness are ours to wear. This is the great reversal: we who were far away have been brought near; we who were exiled now stand clean; we who once bore shame now find a place in His home, His garden, His presence.

Another Vision in Exile – Revelation 12

But it gets even better.

Another man, exiled on the island of Patmos, had a vision of the cosmic significance of Jesus’ sacrifice, resurrection, and ascension. In Revelation 12, John sees the heavenly aftermath of Christ’s victory—a story tracing all the way back to the garden of Eden, when God promised Eve that her offspring would crush the serpent’s head. With Jesus, that moment finally arrives.

Unlike Adam and Eve, unlike Israel, unlike all of us, Jesus did not yield to the serpent’s lies. He resisted every temptation, trusted fully in His Father’s voice, and in doing so, crushed the serpent definitively.

Having offered His life, Jesus was raised and ascended into heaven, taking His place as the rightful King. Because His righteousness was greater than our sin, because His life conquered death itself, the accuser has lost his place. Satan—who once stood accusing Joshua, and who whispered accusations over us—has been thrown down, cast out of heaven forever. Why? Because there is no longer any accusation left to make. The penalty is paid, justice is satisfied, heaven is cleansed.

Now, in the place of an accuser, stands an Advocate. Acts 7 reveals this vividly: as Stephen faced death, he saw Jesus standing at the right hand of God. The very place once occupied by our accuser is now held by our Savior, our Defender, who pleads our cause.

There is no condemnation left for those in Christ Jesus.

This changes everything. Like Israel in the wilderness, we’ve been rescued but aren’t yet home. We’re journeying through a land that isn’t our own, tempted to settle, tempted to despair. But we don’t travel alone. Jesus leads us. And while Satan no longer has a voice in heaven, he still lies and destroys on earth. Revelation describes him spewing water—lies designed to drown God’s people. Lies that say we’re still dirty, unlovable, unforgivable, that this broken world is all there is.

But they are lies without power for those in Christ. We do not fight the accuser with our own strength or goodness. Instead, we cling to truth. We trust the blood of the Lamb and the word of our testimony. We rehearse what Christ has done for us—remembering, speaking, declaring, until the truth reshapes our hearts. Our worship, prayers, and confessions become powerful weapons against the accuser’s lies.

And here’s the beautiful irony: the accuser’s primary weapon—words—has lost its sting. Jesus, the Word made flesh, has spoken a better, final word over us: “It is finished.”

The Garden Opened

Revelation closes this scene with a profound picture: those in heaven rejoice, while those on earth endure. But the story presses forward. Because Jesus hasn’t only cleansed us—He’s commissioned us. We are now a kingdom of priests, sent into the world as His ambassadors. Like Joshua, we’re clothed in new garments, called to serve, sent out in hope and grace.

And here we return once more to the beginning of Zechariah’s vision—from top to bottom again. But now, the story belongs to us.

We’re sent out as little Joshuas—priests clothed in mercy, commissioned with hope. Like him, we’ve been snatched from the fire, brought out of exile, and declared clean—not because we had no guilt, but because of our God’s overwhelming grace. There’s no accuser left to condemn us; his accusations are silenced forever.

Instead, we’re clothed in Jesus’ garments—the radiant robes of righteousness proclaiming that we belong fully to God. Like Joshua, we wear a priestly headpiece, symbolically marked: “Holy to the Lord.” This identity is not earned but freely given; not deserved but graciously bestowed.

This grace invites us to cast off the old garments of the world—hatred, lust, idolatry, pride—and to put on Christ: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. We are being formed daily into His image. We don’t dress ourselves—He dresses us. We don’t climb our way back to Eden—He leads us home.

And remember the girl in the pool? She isn’t turned away. She isn’t left ashamed. She’s gently led by the hand, her feet cleansed, her garments exchanged for clean ones. She’s welcomed not as a contaminant but as a beloved daughter. Feet once covered in filth now walk in holiness. Her story, rewritten by grace, becomes our story too.

Grace is not a license to live however we want; it’s a new birth into a new way of living—a life of grateful obedience. Like Joshua, we’re invited to walk in God’s ways, to keep His commands. But this isn’t burdensome legalism; it’s a life shaped by relationship—loving God fully, loving our neighbors generously. This is what true priesthood looks like in our world.

When we stumble—and we will—we’re not met with condemnation but with invitation. We repent, we turn back, and we learn again how to walk in the way of Jesus. The voice that calls us home isn’t the harsh sentence of a judge; it’s the welcoming embrace of a Father.

Our Advocate and Our Home

Left to ourselves, we could never fulfill this calling. But the final gift of Zechariah’s vision is this—we are not left alone. Jesus is not only our great High Priest; He is also our Branch and our Temple.

He is the Branch—the living one, filled with divine life, deeply rooted in God’s purposes. As we connect ourselves to Him—branches grafted into the true Vine—we are transformed. He makes us fruitful. As we abide in Him, He produces in us what we could never generate on our own. As Jesus Himself said: “I am the vine; you are the branches… apart from Me, you can do nothing.” (John 15:5)

He is also our Temple—not a structure made by human hands, but the sacred place where heaven touches earth. In Him, we are forgiven. In Him, we find help in times of need. In Him, we encounter God’s transforming presence. He is not distant or hidden behind a curtain; His presence is accessible, personal, near.

And here is the final, glorious promise: Jesus is leading us home. As we follow Him, walking in obedience and grace, He is guiding us back into the garden—not a myth, not an empty promise, but the very presence of God Himself. There, we will sit in peace. We will gather in rich community. We will eat from the tree of life, experiencing fully the goodness and purpose for which we were created.

Together with all those who have trusted the testimony of our great High Priest, we will stand clothed in white robes, singing songs of redemption. The One who saved us, the One who is changing us, is also the One who will faithfully finish what He has begun.

We can trust Him completely. He chose us, He called us, and just as He was faithful to every promise revealed in Zechariah’s vision, He will be faithful to this final promise: He will bring us safely home, where we will rest under our own vines and fig trees, in the garden of God, forever.