More than forty-five years ago, I heard my grandfather preach a sermon about the first Passover. The night the Death Angel stalked throughout the land of Egypt, killing all the first born. “From the first-born of Pharaoh who sits on his throne, to the first born of the slave girl who is behind the millstones; all the firstborn of the cattle as well.” Exodus 12

I’m pretty sure I inherited some of my story-telling genes from Grandpa Adair. That Sunday, he told the story so vividly I can still hear the sound of the wind swirling through the homes in Goshen when the Death Angel passed over. We were not Jewish, and I don’t remember my grandfather ever preaching anything with as much historical detail as he gave that day.

And, I’ve never forgotten the main point of his story. The first-born among the children of Israel would be saved. One one condition. That they remained in the house and under the blood.

It was the first time I heard about the sacrifice of a Passover lamb. The first time I learned how the blood was applied to the door posts and the lintel. The first time I glimpsed a prophetic picture of Jesus Christ and Him crucified, as the Apostle Paul would later say.

I didn’t always walk steadily in the faith from that day forward. I made some mistakes as I grew up in the era of hippie love and Viet Nam war. But anytime I strayed too far, the memory of the Passover Lamb brought me home. Long before I understood salvation or sanctification, I knew this:The safest place to be in this crazy, messed up world is in the House and under the Blood.

And I’m still there.