This morning I read Leviticus 24–26. It wasn’t a hard read, it was a bit of warning.
Winter in Salt Lake has been dry. No real snow. Bare mountains. Reservoirs already low. It’s the kind of dryness that makes you stop and pay attention.
Leviticus 25 talks about letting the land rest. Every seventh year, fields are left fallow. No planting. No pruning. Whatever grows on its own is shared. The land is allowed to recover.
I thought of my dad. Sometimes he left a field fallow—not a religious thing, but lesson learned from experience. He knew the land couldn’t give endlessly. Rest wasn’t waste. It was wisdom. He trusted that restraint would lead to abundance later.
That’s how this law feels to me. Not harsh. Not theoretical. Just true. God asks for rest because He provides. We need the Sabbath. The land does too.
The section on servants is harder to read. Poverty could push someone into service, but God draws limits. No harsh rule. No ownership. Freedom built in. “They are My servants.” They belong to God. I’ve seen “servant” listed again and again in census reports as I’ve done Family Search. People sold their labor to survive. I get this. They were hiring themselves out for room and board.
Leviticus 26 turns sober and very relatable. Faithfulness brings rain and peace. Turning away brings the opposite. Disease. Failed crops. Sky like iron. Ground like brass.
Reading it, I felt a quiet gulp. Not fear—just application. We’ve lived through disease (pandemic). Now we’re watching the land dry out. It raises an honest question: Are we listening?
These words were spoken to ancient Israel, but the pattern remains. When God’s rhythms are ignored—rest, trust, stewardship—things begin to thin.
This dry season feels like an invitation — and invitation to open our eyes and see what’s happening. Do we believe the warnings the Lord gives to his people, Israel? Do we think perhaps we too are being warned? Are we getting the message?
My dad trusted fallow ground. Is Leviticus asking the same of us.
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