“If I get my toe in the blood, I’m a dead man.”

In this week’s video series by Ray Vander Laan, he spoke about how serious covenants were taken in Biblical days. Redemption is one of the most powerful and central concepts in the life of a follower of Jesus. means that God longs to bring His lost children home, to make them part of His family again—not just someday in heaven, but now. While many believe Jesus died for our sins only so we could go to heaven, the Bible offers a broader and deeper view: Jesus died to redeem us, to pay a debt that kept us cut off, broken, and on the margins of God’s plan. He used His own life and blood to provide what we could never earn ourselves.

On the cross, Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” quoting Psalm 22. He was not just expressing anguish but pointing to a larger story. Scripture tells us He was crucified at the third hour (around 9 a.m.) and died at the ninth hour (around 3 p.m.). Why does the Bible include these specific times? What difference does it make? To us, maybe not much, but to a first-century Jew, those times pointed to something profound. These were the same hours that daily sacrifices were made at the Temple. When something in Scripture seems unnecessary or strangely specific, it’s often a sign to dig deeper. Those details connect the crucifixion to other parts of Scripture. Jewish readers would have understood those connections. We often don’t, because we aren’t reading the Bible the way they did.

To see what they saw, we have to go back to the desert, to a man named Abram and his wife Sarai, the couple God called out of Babel. In Genesis 15:1, God tells Abram, “Do not be afraid, Abram. I am your shield.” Ray once said if he had been Abram, he would have asked, “Why shouldn’t I be afraid?” But Abram doesn’t flinch. Instead, he challenges God. “What can You give me? I have no children.” He talks to God as if grabbing Him by the front of His holy robe saying, “I want a real promise.”

God responds by taking Abram outside. He tells him to count the stars—if he can. “That’s how many descendants you’ll have,” He says. Then He promises to give those descendants the land. But Abram wants assurance. “How can I know for sure?” So God tells him they will make a covenant—a formal, permanent agreement that establishes a relationship with terms, promises, and consequences. In covenants like this, both parties are bound to keep their word, and if one fails, there’s a price to pay.

God promises Abram three things: descendants, land, and that all nations—every ethnic group—would be blessed through his family. But there was a catch. The covenant would only remain in place if Abram and his descendants were blameless. One sin, one failure, and the covenant would be broken, bringing curses instead of blessings. Abram knew he had already lied about his wife being his sister (Genesis 12:10-20). He knew he couldn’t meet the standard.

Then God gives specific instructions. He tells Abram to bring five animals: a heifer, a goat, a ram, a dove, and a pigeon. This wasn’t random. These five animals later became the core of the Jewish sacrificial system. If you were Jewish and read this, you’d recognize immediately what God was setting up. Abram kills the animals, cuts them in half (except the birds), and arranges the halves opposite each other. Blood ran into the middle, forming a path of blood. This was how covenants were made in that time. The lesser party would prepare the blood path, and then both parties would walk through it barefoot, their feet and robes soaked in blood, symbolizing: “If I ever break this covenant, may this happen to me.”

Then something strange happens. Two symbols appear: a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch. Smoke and fire are symbols of God's presence—seen later at Mount Sinai, in the burning bush, and in Isaiah’s temple vision. These two pass between the animal pieces, God Himself walking the blood path. Abraham doesn’t walk it. He doesn’t have to. God walks it alone. It’s as if Abram started to lift his foot, trembling, ready to step in, and God said, “No. Let Me do this,” and God put him into a deep sleep.

God was saying, “If you or your descendants ever break this covenant, I will pay the price. I will be torn apart. I will walk through the blood. I will die in your place.” In that moment, Jesus' fate was sealed. From heaven, He saw it. God sentenced Himself to death for our future failure. That’s how serious God was about redemption.

Fast forward 400 years. God instructs Israel to build a tabernacle and begin offering sacrifices—twice a day, every day—at 9 a.m. and 3 p.m. using those same five animals. Rain, snow, holidays—it didn’t matter. The sacrifices continued, first in the tent, and later in the temple for another thousand years. It became ritual, but it was rooted in God’s promise to Abraham.

A specially trained group of priests followed the sundial. At exactly the third and ninth hours, the shofar was blown. (A shofar is ram’s horn that is used as a musical instrument or trumpet in Jewish religious practices.) The city would fall silent. A priest would slit an animal’s throat as if to say, “Lord, You promised.” This sacred rhythm reminded God and His people of the blood path, of the covenant, and of His vow to redeem – not that God needed reminding.

Then came the day everything changed. On a holiday, three men were nailed to crosses outside Jerusalem. At exactly 9 a.m., the shofar blew, just like it had for centuries. The city fell silent. The man on the middle cross already looked close to death. Six hours passed.

At 3 p.m., the ninth hour, the second shofar blew. Again, silence. And then, with a hoarse, choking cry, the man in the middle raised His head and said, “It is finished!” He had fulfilled the covenant. He had walked the blood path. He had paid the price.

Every sacrifice made in the temple had pointed back to the promise God made to Abraham, and the death of Jesus fulfilled it once and for all. Now, when we take the Lord’s Supper, we’re not just remembering a sacrifice—we’re remembering the God who walked through blood, who made a covenant knowing we would fail, and who paid for our redemption with His own.