Wet Blood

I knew I shouldn’t have gone downtown by myself that evening. A friend asked me to meet up, and I came to the area at the agreed-upon time. Because it was late evening, people began leaving the building I was in, and pretty soon I was the only one left, waiting for my friend. The red light from the setting sun poured into the windows—a livid red. I felt pinned in and started gasping for air. The room acquired an unnerving silence, and the crimson filter through which I saw the inside of the building somehow left the outside untouched and coated with yellow, waxy light. Through the windows I soon saw the outline of a person running up to the building, but the figure was too tall to be my friend. The approaching man ran full speed toward the part of the window behind which I stood and tried to break through it to get to me, but he couldn’t. I screamed and ran toward the door of the building, but so did he. Uninjured, he had me cornered: I moved left, and he moved right; I moved right, and he moved left. His motions seemed springy, as if he were ready to pounce; his unearthly, enlivened steps sickened me. And suddenly I was somehow thrust up against the window, face to face with him. Scraping at the window, his face grinning, he cackled at my terror. I began shouting prayers which I know he could hear because the glass was thin. He suddenly shot back from the window and I took a breath; but he raced back again. This went on several times; because he had me cornered, I knew he had to be the one to leave, not me. I audibly thanked Jesus that His blood covered me, and once again I found myself smack-up against the window. At that point I didn’t understand what I was praying, but the figure heard and translated in mimicry: “Lord, have mercy! Lord, have mercy!” I kept praying, and he kept up the cycle of fleeing, then returning. 

And then I woke up.

I woke up to someone yelling, actually. I awoke to weakened screams of “Jesus!” and after a few cries of His name, I realized that I was the one hoarsely shouting. 

My friends and family know that when I wake up, my voice is always high-pitched and raspy because I am a mouth-breather, and when they try to talk to me in the morning, my squeaky larynx consistently affords them loads of laughter. That said, I’ve never woken up yelling before. But I couldn’t stop. I continued to shout His name (well, if croaking is a synonym for shouting) for several minutes, and I pleaded the blood of Jesus over my life, over the Raatzes, over my family, over anyone I could think of.  

Soon I lay silent and still in the thin gray light of the morning. I looked at the clock: it was only 5 a.m. I fell back asleep for another hour.

Just a tired daze?

Maybe.

When I awoke to my alarm later that morning, I pondered my nightmare. And I pondered the slew of nightmares I’ve been having over the past few weeks. 

I’m aware that at this point you may be wondering if I’m making a little too much out of a few bad dreams. Have real creeper men come clawing at my windows? No.

Then am I blowing some intangible trivialities out of proportion?

Maybe. But it is ever inappropriate to talk about the hell-shattering power of our God?

The nightmares have caused me to ask myself: What do I fear? And why do I fear it?

And what do you fear? 

I’ve been pondering what makes me scared—really scared. Moments of sheer terror have made their way into not only my dreams but also my real life. In a strain of soul-bearing honesty, allow me to list some things from real life that make/have made me sheerly terrified:

-When I hike off-trail through mountains that are teeming with wildlife

-When I take a wrong turn on an unfamiliar road in the middle of the night

-When I get lost by myself in a foreign country

-When I hear of a family member or close friend having a medical emergency

-When I think of living on earth without the presence and activity of God

-When I ponder of the reality the eternity of hell for people who do not know Jesus

I could probably generate more items to expand that list, but even in those six I notice the power that what-ifs hold over my life. What if an animal attacks? What if I encounter people of ill intent? What if people I love are in danger?

Let’s take this thought a step further: what would be the worst end-result of these? Death. All these possibilities are scary to me because they can lead to death. So do I fear death?

As a Christian, I do not. From childhood, I have been taught that Jesus defeated death and that death holds no power over those who follow Jesus. Matthew 10:28 instructs us to “not fear those who kill the body but are unable to kill the soul; [instead, we should] fear Him who is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.” So do I fear death? No.

If I do not fear death, then why do these secondary fears sometimes gridlock me? Why does fear sometimes hold such sway over me?

Or over you?

When I am besieged by fear, I am overtaken by an emotion that shows only half the picture. I am afraid of what will happen in the immediate context but not the full reality. I fear when I possess a limited view of reality. And fear limits my view.

So, what do you fear? Death, or something bigger than death?

And what would that be?

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Jesus’ death is an eternal fact, a length to which the Trinity went because there was no other way for humankind to come before the presence of God. His holiness and our wretchedness intersected in a profane-turned-holy union at the cross. Instead of being condemned, choiceless, to death, we now have the vital opportunity to choose eternal life. His holiness demanded it, but His love—His undeserved love—brought it to pass. Singer/Songwriter John Mark MacMillan, in the chorus of his song “Dress Us Up,” explains the victory of the cross: The love of God is stronger / The love of God is stronger / The love of God is stronger than the power of death.  

His love has more might than death ever will. And He is love, and “all who live in love live in God, and God in them” (1 John 4:16). If this stronger-than-death love lives in us, and we in it, then what can we legitimately fear?

Romans 8:2 explains that the “power of the life-giving Spirit has freed [us] from the power of sin that leads to death.” This power, the law of the Spirit of life, has canceled sin’s penalty for followers of Christ. Because of Jesus’ death we are forgiven—freed from death’s power—and because of His resurrection, death is defeated.

Byzantine liturgy, crafted and quoted by Eastern Christians in the late 300s AD, says that “He destroyed death by death.” This isn’t poetic redundancy; it’s precise truth.

References to Jesus’ death are often synonymous with references to “the blood of Jesus.” Blood simultaneously symbolizes and is life. To delve into the significance of blood as life and the development of blood as symbol would take up not only multiple blog entries but entire books, and I’ll not attempt to bite off more than I can chew. That said, from religion to medicine, from ancient times to present, blood represents life. And Jesus’ blood at once represents His death and our resulting new life.

The phrase “to plead the blood of Jesus” is not found in the Bible, but this archaic expression is quite common in Protestant circles. Simply put, it means that in faith, we as Christians are applying God’s life-giving power to our lives. We are proclaiming that Jesus’ blood covers us for all situations we face, especially trying ones. This phrase is most commonly used in conjunction with times of distress, fear, or oppression. 

In my own times of what I would call severe distress, I have pleaded the blood of Jesus over my life. In my nightmares, too, I plead it. And there’s been a common theme in my recent nightmares: In all of them, I am threatened but not harmed. I am terrorized, but my fears are never fully realized. Those who come after my life never succeed in taking it. Another common theme in my recent nightmares is that in each one, I remain safe when I pray aloud and plead the blood of Jesus over my life.

But what does “pleading His blood” really mean? And what does it do?

“To plead the blood of Jesus” is not to ask God to go do something additional. We’re not asking Jesus to die again or patch up some work He’s left undone. His blood is applied to our lives, cleansing us from sin, at the moment of our salvation. 

When we plead it, then, we are re-affirming His completed work rather than attempting to add to it, and we are reminding ourselves that His death liberates us from the power of our own.  The writer of Hebrews explains that “without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness” (9:22b). Shed blood forgives sins. Jesus’ blood forgave, forgives, and will forgive our sins. Pleading the blood is re-affirming that Jesus’ salvific work has been applied to our lives. Therefore, we are not under the power of sin—because if we were, we would still be subject to death. 

The second verse of MacMillan’s “Dress Us Up” is both a prayer and a proclamation about the blood of Jesus:

Dress us up in the blood of the Son / Who opened up His veins so that we could overcome / Hell and the grave and the power of His love / After three dark days  He showed us how it’s done / And He still does.

Yesterday while running, I pondered the power of the blood of Jesus. As I did, a new thought about His blood struck me in such a way that I shouted out in a strain of gratefulness, “Thank You that Your blood never dries!”

His blood is still wet. It never dries. I’m not talking about 2000+ year-old blood, dried and caked. I’m talking about a fresh-gushing stream. It is applied to us in our weakness, our fear, our trembling. We will always come up short, always end up needing it. But His blood will never run out.

The blood provides us life in the Son’s kingdom and forgiveness of sins (Colossians 1:14). It grants us access to the Father and eternal redemption (Hebrews 9:12). It offers us freedom from the empty way of life our human nature provides us (1 Peter 1:18). It gives victory over oppression from the devil (Revelation 12:11). 

What a fear-severing force is the lifeblood of Jesus! I’m not talking about a brazen I’m-invincible mindset, nor am I advocating throwing caution to the wind. I’m not lauding a fearlessness that is only glorified foolishness. I am talking about a view of reality in which our minds are not surrendered to terror even in the face of legitimately terrifying circumstances because our Lord, through the shedding of his blood, has the final say on the essence of who we are. 

What do you fear? What plagues you? What have you been tolerating that you’d like freedom from? Recognize who you are in Him. Recognize what His blood does for you. Recognize that this blood bath is one you want to soak in.

And when you do, your trepidation can give way to security.   

Because when you are covered by the blood of Jesus, nothing—in the truest sense—can harm you.

Dripping wet,

Renée