The Blood-Stained Path to God's Presence

There's something profoundly significant about physical symbols in our spiritual lives. We are creatures who forget easily, whose attention drifts, whose hearts grow cold toward truths we've heard a thousand times. Perhaps this is why God, in His wisdom, doesn't just speak to us—He shows us. He engages our senses, gives us something to touch and taste and see, because words alone often fail to penetrate our distracted hearts.
This reality becomes stunningly clear in one of the most dramatic moments in Israel's history: the covenant ceremony at Mount Sinai.

A Terrifying Encounter
Picture the scene: The Israelites have been rescued from Egyptian slavery, brought through the Red Sea, and now stand at the base of Mount Sinai. They've experienced miraculous deliverance, but nothing—absolutely nothing—has prepared them for what awaits them here.

God Himself descends upon the mountain. The glory of the Lord appears like a devouring fire on the mountaintop. This isn't metaphorical language or poetic exaggeration. The text emphasizes that word "devouring" deliberately. God's holiness is a consuming fire, and the people have already been warned: touch the mountain and you will die.

Think about that for a moment. The most frightening thing these people had faced up to this point was Pharaoh's army bearing down on them at the Red Sea. But that terror pales in comparison to standing before the holy, majestic, dreadful presence of God Almighty.

The Question That Hangs in the Air
A profound question emerges from this encounter: Will God's justice break forth and consume these sinful people as they deserve? Will His mighty hand fall upon them in righteous judgment?

The answer comes with unexpected beauty: mercy. God invites His people into His presence. The elders ascend the mountain and see something Moses can barely describe—a pavement of sapphire stones, like the very heaven for clearness. And most remarkably: "He did not lay his hand on the chief men of the people of Israel. They beheld God and ate and drank."

God chooses to dwell among His people. He will be their God; they will be His people. Those who stood far off will now have Him in their midst.

But this only raises a second, equally pressing question: How? How can a holy God dwell among sinful people without His justice demanding their destruction?

A Blood-Stained Answer
The answer comes in a vivid, visceral ceremony that Moses orchestrates at the foot of the mountain. He builds an altar representing God, surrounded by twelve pillars representing the twelve tribes of Israel. It's a miniature picture of what's being established: a holy God in the midst of His people.

Then comes the blood.

Young men offer burnt offerings and peace offerings. Moses takes the blood and does something striking: he throws half against the altar and half on the people. He declares: "Behold, the blood of the covenant that the Lord has made with you."

This is the answer to how holiness and mercy meet. God's people will have life through judgment and death—but not their own. A substitute will bear the wrath that sin demands. The relationship will be established and maintained through blood—either the substitute's or their own.

Imagine walking past those blood-covered pillars to ascend the mountain for that covenant meal with God. Imagine sitting in His presence, looking down over your shoulder at that gory scene below. You would understand two things simultaneously: God has provided a way for us to dwell with Him through the blood of a substitute, and if we abandon this God, He will require our blood.

It's both encouragement and warning, grace and gravity intertwined.

Shadows and Substance
The Israelites understood these were symbols. The altar wasn't actually God. The pillars weren't actually them. The animal blood didn't truly save—it represented a blood that would. They were looking at shadows of greater realities to come, even if they couldn't fully grasp how or when those realities would appear.

For fourteen hundred years, these shadows persisted. Sacrifices continued. Blood flowed. The symbols pointed forward to something—Someone—who would make them all obsolete.

Then Jesus Christ came.

The real sacrifice arrived. The true substitute appeared. Justice was poured out on Him, and mercy flowed to us. When Jesus held up the cup at that final meal with His twelve disciples and said, "This is the cup of the new covenant in my blood," He was declaring that all the symbols had found their fulfillment in Him.

This is why physical symbols matter in our faith. This is why we have visible signs of invisible grace. Our faith is weak and wavering. We are creatures who cling to what we can see and touch, who struggle to grasp spiritual realities. So God, in His boundless condescension, uses earthly elements to lead us to Himself.

The covenant meal on Sinai looked forward to the cross. Our communion table looks back to it. Like those elders waiting at the mountain's foot for their mediator to return, we wait for our Mediator, our King, to return from glory.

The blood-stained path to God's presence has been opened. The substitute has been provided. The way to dwell with a holy God has been made clear—not through our obedience, not through our worthiness, but through the blood of the covenant.

This is the gospel held before our eyes, engaging all our senses, shaking us from our slumber, helping us feel the weight of what Jesus has done. May we never forget the cost of our relationship with God, nor the grace that makes it possible.