Leviticus makes a provision most religions never think of: sacrifices for sins committed unintentionally, the harm you did not mean, the line you crossed without knowing.

And it prices mercy on a sliding scale, a bull for the leader, two doves for the poor, flour for the poorest, so that no one is ever too broke to be forgiven. Grace has always had ramps.

The sliding scale of Leviticus and the dinner at Levi's house are the same doctrine in different rooms: nobody is priced out of mercy. Flour for the destitute. A seat for the tax collector. Forgiveness spoken over sins the sinner had not even noticed committing. The system's bias runs toward restoration, all the way down.

Which is why Jesus' anger in the synagogue matters: what grieved Him was hearts too hard to want a man healed. The opposite of holiness, it turns out, is not weakness but stubbornness. Keep your heart soft today, quick to say the doctor's name, quick to bring what you have, even if what you have is flour.