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.
I’m glad you learned out to tell stories!
how not out
Gotta love auto-correct. Thanks for the encouragement, Carol. And I’m sorry to be such a lame poet in the April challenge.