Two Mountains, Two Covenants Text: Hebrews 12:18-24
Introduction: The Great Exchange
The Christian life is a matter of geography. It is a question of where you are standing. The entire book of Hebrews has been a long argument, pressing upon its hearers the absolute necessity of understanding their location. They were being tempted to go back, to return to the shadows and types of the old covenant, to revisit a mountain that God had left long ago. But the author labors to show them that this is not a harmless nostalgia trip. It is a suicidal leap into the abyss. You cannot go back to a system that has been rendered obsolete by the very fulfillment it pointed to.
In our text today, the author brings his argument to a grand crescendo. He places two mountains before us, Sinai and Zion. These are not just two piles of rock in the Middle East. They represent two entirely different worlds, two covenants, two ways of relating to God, two futures. One is a place of terror, distance, and death. The other is a place of joy, welcome, and life. The central burden of this passage is to make us see, with utter clarity, which mountain we have come to. Many Christians live their lives as though they are still cowering at the base of Sinai, when in fact they have been brought into the very heart of the heavenly Jerusalem.
This is not a contrast between a bad religion and a good one. The Old Covenant was good; it was from God. It was glorious. But it was the glory of the moon, a reflected glory that was designed to make you long for the sun. Its goodness was in its pointing. Its terror was purposeful; it was designed to show men their sin and drive them to a Mediator. The problem is not with Sinai, but with trying to live at Sinai after the sun has risen on Zion. To do so is to prefer the blackness and the tempest to the festal gathering and the sprinkled blood. It is to prefer the ministry of condemnation to the ministry of righteousness. Our passage is a magnificent portrait of the privileges we have in the new covenant, and it is a solemn warning to not take them lightly.
The Text
For you have not come to a mountain that can be touched and to a blazing fire, and to darkness and gloom and whirlwind, and to the blast of a trumpet and the sound of words which was such that those who heard begged that no further word be spoken to them. For they could not bear what was being commanded, “IF EVEN A BEAST TOUCHES THE MOUNTAIN, IT WILL BE STONED.” And so terrible was what appeared, that Moses said, “I AM FULL OF FEAR and trembling.” But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to myriads of angels, to the festal gathering and assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God, the Judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect, and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood, which speaks better than the blood of Abel.
(Hebrews 12:18-24 LSB)
The Mountain of Terror (vv. 18-21)
The author begins by reminding his readers of what they have been delivered from. He paints a picture of the giving of the law at Mount Sinai, drawing directly from the accounts in Exodus and Deuteronomy.
"For you have not come to a mountain that can be touched and to a blazing fire, and to darkness and gloom and whirlwind, and to the blast of a trumpet and the sound of words which was such that those who heard begged that no further word be spoken to them." (Hebrews 12:18-19)
The first thing to notice is the negative: "you have not come." This is a definitive statement about our current position in Christ. We are not there. That world is not our world. He describes Sinai as a physical, tangible mountain, a place of sensory overload. It was a terrifying spectacle of God's raw, unmediated holiness. You had fire, darkness, gloom, a whirlwind, a trumpet blast that grew louder and louder, and a voice so dreadful that the people begged for it to stop. This was not a cozy campfire chat. This was the terrifying glory of a holy God descending upon a sinful people.
The purpose of this terror was pedagogical. It was meant to teach Israel the vast gulf between their sinfulness and God's righteousness. The law given in this context was a ministry of condemnation (2 Cor. 3:9). It was designed to show them that they could not, on their own, stand in the presence of this God. They needed a mediator. They needed a sacrifice. The very experience of receiving the law was a sermon on their desperate need for grace.
The command given was so strict that it extended even to the animal kingdom.
"For they could not bear what was being commanded, 'IF EVEN A BEAST TOUCHES THE MOUNTAIN, IT WILL BE STONED.' And so terrible was what appeared, that Moses said, 'I AM FULL OF FEAR and trembling.'" (Hebrews 12:20-21)
The boundary line drawn around the mountain was absolute. The penalty for transgression was instant death. This wasn't arbitrary. It was a graphic illustration of the fact that sin, any sin, in the presence of a holy God, results in death. The wages of sin is death, and at Sinai, God put that truth on full display. Even Moses, the mediator of the old covenant, the man who spoke with God face to face, was terrified. This was not the slavish fear of a criminal before a tyrant, but the creaturely awe and terror of a man who understood the holiness of the God he was dealing with. If even Moses trembled, what hope was there for the ordinary Israelite?
This whole scene was designed to create a profound sense of need. It was a setup for the gospel. It was meant to make them cry out for a better covenant, a better mediator, a better sacrifice. The law is a schoolmaster to bring us to Christ, and the schoolhouse at Sinai was a terrifying place indeed.
The Mountain of Joy (vv. 22-24)
Then comes the great turning point, the glorious "But." This is one of the most magnificent transitions in all of Scripture. We are no longer defined by what we are not, but by what we are. We are no longer defined by where we have not come, but by where we have arrived.
"But you have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to myriads of angels..." (Hebrews 12:22)
Notice the tense: "you have come." This is not a future hope, but a present reality. When we gather for worship, when we come to the Lord's Table, we are not just in a building in our town. By faith, we ascend to the heavenly Zion. We are joining a worship service that is already in progress. This Mount Zion is not the dusty hill in earthly Jerusalem, but its heavenly counterpart, the true center of God's government and grace. It is the city of the living God, a place teeming with life, not death.
And we are not alone. We have come to "myriads of angels." The scene at Sinai was one of God and a terrified people kept at a distance. The scene at Zion is a massive, joyful celebration. The angels are not border guards keeping us out; they are fellow worshipers, welcoming us in.
The description of this assembly continues, piling up our privileges.
"...to the festal gathering and assembly of the firstborn who are enrolled in heaven, and to God, the Judge of all, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect..." (Hebrews 12:23)
We have come to a "festal gathering," a party. The Greek word is panegyris, from which we get our word panegyric. This is not a funeral. Christian worship is a festival. We are part of the "assembly of the firstborn." In the Old Covenant, the firstborn had special rights and privileges. In the New Covenant, all believers are firstborn sons in Christ (Rom. 8:29). We all have the inheritance. Our names are "enrolled in heaven," our citizenship is secure.
And notice who else is there: "God, the Judge of all." At Sinai, the thought of God as Judge was terrifying. At Zion, it is a comfort. Why? Because the Judge is our Father. Because the verdict has already been rendered in our favor on account of Christ. We can draw near to the Judge with confidence, because our case has been settled out of court by the blood of His Son. We also join "the spirits of the righteous made perfect," the great cloud of witnesses from chapter 11, all the saints who have gone before us. We are part of one great family, one church, spanning heaven and earth.
Finally, the author brings us to the center of it all.
"...and to Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood, which speaks better than the blood of Abel." (Hebrews 12:24)
All of this is possible because of Jesus. He is the mediator of a new and better covenant. Moses mediated a covenant of law that led to death; Jesus mediates a covenant of grace that leads to life. And the seal of this covenant is His "sprinkled blood." This blood is not like the blood on the doorposts in Egypt, which only averted wrath. This blood cleanses the conscience and gives us access into the very holy of holies.
This blood "speaks." And what it says is better than what the blood of Abel said. After Cain murdered Abel, God said to him, "The voice of your brother's blood is crying to me from the ground" (Gen. 4:10). The blood of Abel cried out for vengeance, for justice, for condemnation. But the blood of Jesus speaks a better word. It cries out for mercy, for pardon, for reconciliation. Abel's blood cries "Guilty!" Jesus' blood cries "Forgiven!" Abel's blood demands payment. Jesus' blood declares "Paid in full."
Conclusion: Living on the Right Mountain
So the contrast is stark. Sinai is fear, distance, law, condemnation, and death. Zion is joy, access, grace, pardon, and life. The question for us is simple: which mountain are we living on? Do we approach God with the trembling fear of a slave, or with the joyful confidence of a son? Do we see our Christian life as a grim duty, a list of rules to be kept under threat of punishment? Or do we see it as a festival, a joyful ascent into the presence of our Father?
The entire worship service of the Christian church is a weekly re-enactment of this ascent to Zion. We are called into His presence, we confess our sins, we are assured of His pardon through the blood that speaks a better word, we hear from His Word, and we feast with Him at His table. This is not a memorial service for a dead hero. It is a triumphant celebration with our risen and reigning King.
To be a Christian is to have been transferred from one mountain to the other. God, in His mercy, has taken us from the terrifying slopes of Sinai and planted our feet firmly on the joyful summit of Zion. He has brought us out of the darkness and into His marvelous light. He has exchanged the trumpet of doom for the songs of the redeemed. He has replaced the voice of condemnation with the blood that cries for mercy. This is our reality. This is our privilege. This is our home. Let us therefore live like it.