Hebrews 12:18–29

Original Meaning

The Old Covenant Mountain (12:18–21)

ALTHOUGH THE AUTHOR of Hebrews never mentions Sinai by name, he clearly has that mountain in view in his poetic comments in these verses. He draws his depiction of the desert wanderers’ encounter of God at Mount Sinai from the books of Exodus and Deuteronomy (e.g., Ex. 19:16–22; 20:18–21; Deut. 4:11–12; 5:23–27). In the Sinai encounter they came near to God in a solemn assembly to covenant with him (Deut. 4:10–14). But the experience was terrifying, and the author uses seven images from the Old Testament to drive home the event’s terror:

(1) [the mountain] that can[not] be touched

(2) burning with fire

(3) darkness

(4) gloom

(5) storm

(6) a trumpet blast

(7) a voice speaking words

The word “mountain” does not occur in the Greek text of verse 18, but most commentators have understood the concept as implied in the phrase “that can be touched.” This idea probably alludes to Exodus 19:12: “Put limits for the people around the mountain and tell them, ‘Be careful that you do not go up the mountain or touch the foot of it. Whoever touches the mountain shall surely be put to death.’” The images of “fire,” “darkness,” and “storm” are also taken from the Old Testament (Ex. 19:16–19; Deut. 4:11; 5:22–23). Paired with the word translated “to darkness” (gnopho), the word translated “[to] gloom” (zopho) functions euphonically, offering a pleasing, corresponding pronunciation in Greek. These manifestations of God’s presence at Sinai were visible, striking the eyes of the desert wanderers with awe.

The two remaining manifestations of God’s presence were auditory. The “trumpet blast” pierced the air around Sinai on the morning of the third day in the people’s encounter with God, growing louder and louder, causing the covenant makers to tremble with fear (Ex. 19:16, 19; 20:18). Concluding the list, the “voice speaking words” came out of the fire (Deut. 4:12). The people did not see God’s form but only heard the words. In response, they begged that God would speak to them no further (Ex. 20:18–19; Deut. 5:23–27), thus rejecting his message to them. Hebrews 12:20 adds the explanation, “because they could not bear what was commanded: ‘If even an animal touches the mountain, it must be stoned’” (Ex. 19:12–13). The people were aware of the boundaries God had placed between them and him and were terrified that the boundaries seemed to be dissolving under the weight of that terrible voice.

In Hebrews 12:21 the writer concludes by noting that even the mediator of that covenant, Moses, was overwhelmed by the experience—a fact not easily recognized in the passages to which the author up to this point has been alluding. Perhaps the best explanation is that the author is alluding to Deuteronomy 9:19a, where Moses says, “I feared the anger and wrath of the LORD.” Although the context of Deuteronomy 9 concerns the people’s idolatry with the golden calf, there exist several touch points with the earlier theophany recounted in Deuteronomy 4. For example, both experiences occur at Sinai (9:8) and both concern the preeminent expression of covenant guidelines, the Ten Commandments (4:13; 9:9–11). Both contexts also involve the mountain burning with fire (9:15) and Moses’ speaking with the Lord (9:19). If this reading of the reference in Hebrews 12:21 is correct, Moses’ “trembling with fear” is a response to the intensity of God’s red-hot wrath in face of the people’s sin. In any case, verse 21 adds to the impression of Mount Sinai, the old covenant mountain, as a place of darkness and dread.

Bridging Contexts

ARE THOSE MOUNTAINS far away? Most moderns live in a “live-for-today” culture. A businessperson once quoted me the maxim, “Yesterday is a canceled check, tomorrow is just a promissory note; only today is cash.” We may chafe against those who draw our attention to the distant past or the distant future, reasoning, “I have enough to worry about today.” True, our Lord echoed that sentiment in Matthew 6:34: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” His concern, however, was to prevent people from becoming so preoccupied with meeting their own material needs that they are distracted from more vital, spiritual issues. His listeners were captivated by the need for clothing and food and forced to live hand to mouth and thread to tunic.

In a sense moderns are often so pressed by their schedules that the worry of tomorrow has been forced back into today. The rush and crush of these schedules have the same effect, however, of forcing spiritual considerations to a back burner. In our cultural context, therefore, the reality and relevance of the two mountains of Hebrews 12—one seemingly a fossil of the ancient past and the other a celestial image of another world—may be difficult to grasp. The looming, booming picture of Mount Sinai painted in 12:18–21 may seem more a caricature from some horror film than a real-life threat. The festive gathering of Mount Zion, with angels, spirits, and God in the heavenly city, may seem equally fantastic and far removed from the down-to-earth world of daily living.

Points of application related to the mountains. However, these two mountains, foreboding Mount Sinai and festive Mount Zion, could not be more up to date. Pregnant with relevance for modern living, the two mountains must be understood as theological constructs, two ways of viewing relationship with God, that are as meaningful today as when these words were first written. This is the most important foundational key to interpreting Hebrews 12:18–24. Although the author couches his words in spatial language (“you have not come … but you have come”), he is not concerned with physical movement and literal mountains. No, these mountains represent two covenants, and the author is concerned with where his listeners are in relation to God.

There can be no doubt concerning which orientation is to be preferred. The writer crafts the whole of 12:18–24 around the contrasts between the two. Certainly there are connections or correspondences between the two mountains. God’s presence may be found on both summits, and God speaks. Moreover, both mountains, which represent the covenants, have a mediator—the trembling Moses and the high priest Jesus. Nevertheless, the great weight of Hebrews’ imagery goes to building an unmistakable picture of sheer contrasts.

The sense of terror at Sinai, a place of noise and macabre images, flashes like lightning against a black storm cloud. The gloomy sights and the loud noises are the stuff of nightmares. Understandably, the people at the foot of the mountain want no part of it, begging that God will not speak anymore to them. Even Moses trembles with fear. Note further that the images in verses 18–21 are highly impersonal. Here we have fire, storm, gloom, warning, and a “disembodied” voice. Everything about this picture of Sinai says, “Stay away! Don’t come any closer!” The covenant, that meaningful agreement between God and the Israelites, was ratified from a distance because of the unholiness of the people. God resided in the gloom of his mountain, and the people were not allowed even to touch its base. The emphasis, therefore, rests on the unworthiness of the covenant assembly, on God’s judgment of their sin.

By contrast, Mount Zion depicts utter joy and excitement. The gathering of the angels, the assembly of the firstborn, and the spirits of those who have gone on to be with the Lord resemble the revelry of a national holiday. To what are we calling people when we call them to our form of religion? Is it a place of dread, a place from which God seems remote and unapproachable? Or are we calling people to joy? When was the last time in your church or my church that someone from the outside could have mistaken what was taking place for a party because such joy and festivity permeated the event? I am not suggesting that worship services should be raucous. But we should ask whether joy, real joy, is a product of people’s encounter with God through our communities of faith.

Moreover, mark how utterly personal and relational the images of verses 22–24 are! We have come to God our vindicator, angels, other believers, and our Lord Jesus. In contrast to the Sinai portrait, everything about Zion says, “Come! Belong here! Be part of this community! There is no better place to be.” Are we calling people to a religion that fosters healthy relationships with God and others? Do the ministries of our churches invite people to draw near to God and to our fellowships? Or do people find barriers surrounding our churches, be they cultural, traditional, or spiritual? How can we be living out authentically the community life of Mount Zion, a life that reverberates with the invitation, “Come and belong,” when by our actions and attitudes we communicate, “Don’t get too close—to us or our God!”?

The final note rings loudest for the author of Hebrews: Only on the new covenant mountain can one find holiness, forgiveness, and grace. We need not be in terror of God’s voice here. Jesus’ blood speaks a good word on our behalf, saying that the sacrifice for our sin has been offered once for all time. Relationship with God has been assured since the new covenant mediator came down off the mountain, lived among the people, and offered himself as the ultimate sacrifice. Do we communicate a strong message of grace through our actions, preaching, teaching, and ministries? Does Jesus’ blood speak louder than the blood of Abel in our churches? Or have we elevated the condemning word over the word of forgiveness?

This does not just apply to those with whom we are attempting to share the gospel. Let’s remember that the author of Hebrews uses this word of grace as a key motivator for those who were struggling with perseverance. Application of the passage, therefore, must consider the effects of grace on those who are struggling with drifting from the faith.12

Applying Hebrews 12:25–29. With the final passage in Hebrews 12, the writer has brought us back to several familiar themes. Once again he puts forward the Word of God as a reality with which one must reckon. The Word must be received or rejected; there is no middle ground. For those who reject the Word, there exists no escape from God’s judgment. At the end a person either resides as a citizen of God’s unshakable kingdom or perishes with the rest of the universe. The author uses these themes, packaged in his argument from lesser to greater, to end the material recorded in this chapter on a note of forceful warning. It may seem strange that such a harsh warning follows so closely on the heals of the beautifully poetic—almost ecstatic—vision of grace in 12:22–24. Would it not have been better to end the section on a positive note and leave it at that?

In answer we might reply that grace towers over judgment. Yet those who would play “fast and loose” with grace must be reminded that wrath still waits in the wings. God still sits in his seat as Judge. Thus, grace does not mean a universal message of “forgive and forget.” God does not say to humanity, “Whatever you have done, come—and O yes, everything will really be OK even if you don’t come, or even if you play at coming and then leave again!” No, grace must be received and enjoyed in the context of covenant. Those who reject the new covenant reject grace and embrace judgment.

The reason our author follows his picture of festive celebration (12:22–24) with a stern warning (12:25–29) has to do, once again, with the purpose of this book and the spiritual condition of the community. For some in the audience, the matter of their eternal destiny has yet to be discerned; their status has been called into question by their flirtation with apostasy. The warning, therefore, demonstrates that the preacher cannot give an unqualified message of grace to a community of people among whom are those considering abandoning the faith.13

The harsh admonition of 12:25–29, moreover, rivets attention on the consummation of the ages as a key motivator toward right decision. We are called to “live in light of eternity,” weighing our decision regarding God’s offer of grace in light of that decision’s implications at the return of Christ (9:28; 10:37–39). The key question here concerns what we will invest in over the long term. Will we invest our lives in a lasting kingdom?

When I teach this passage to my students I use the following illustration. I ask the class to imagine that I have taken one of my son’s marbles outside and found a mound of dirt. From that mound I take a handful of earth and, placing the marble in the middle, begin making a large dirt-clod. Once made, I leave it out in the sun to dry. I ask them to imagine that on the next day I go back to my dirt-clod, pick it up, and begin shaking it in my hands. As I shake the ball harder and harder, it begins to crumble; more and more pieces, large and small, disintegrate beneath the pressure. Finally, the dirt has completely fallen away to expose the marble, that unshakable, perfect sphere at the core of the clod.

In New Testament theology the seen and the unseen worlds may coexist at present, but the former has a point of termination. Those who belong to the new covenant inherit the kingdom of God, the essence of the unseen world, and thus invest their lives in that which is unshakable. By contrast, those who refuse that kingdom, investing their lives in the seen kingdoms of this age, will not escape the judgment of God. Therefore, the message of 12:25–29 invites us to live in light of eternal values, a life that should be characterized by thankfulness and appropriate worship of God (12:28–29).

Contemporary Significance

TO WHAT ARE we calling people? I recently organized a banquet for the university and invited a number of prominent laypersons from the surrounding area. As I talked to them on the telephone, they wanted to know the nature of the meeting and, especially, what, if anything, would be expected of them. Fair inquiries.

From the earliest days of the Christian movement, the “call to come” has been a central aspect of the church’s message. We need to think clearly about that to which we are inviting people through our public and private proclamations. They have a right to know, and we have a responsibility to call them to the right “mountain” from a biblical perspective. For the call has had many different expressions throughout church history, some of which have veered dangerously from the gospel of grace, joy, and relationship reflected in Hebrews 12:22–24. At times the church has called people to war; at other times the call has been to an inquisitor’s rack. People have been called to a political platform or to endorse a king or political regime.

Aberrant theology has formed the focus of the call at critical junctures along the way of history, as has the desire for acceptance from secular thought-crafters, who do not even believe in God. Out of a desire to clearly reflect God’s holiness, we can steer dangerously close to Sinai, not just as a necessary way station but as a permanent, spiritual destination, preaching a gospel of terror rather than a gospel of beauty. Do our sermons boom and flash with the darkness of Sinai more than they sing and gather people to the festiveness of Zion? This raises three questions.

(1) Are we calling people to grace? At the beginning of his book What’s So Amazing About Grace, author Philip Yancey tells of a personal encounter that puts an exclamation point on this question:

A prostitute came to me in wretched straits, homeless, sick, unable to buy food for her two-year-old daughter. Through sobs and tears, she told me she had been renting out her daughter—two years old!—to men interested in kinky sex. She made more renting out her daughter for an hour than she could earn on her own in a night. She had to do it, she said, to support her own drug habit. I could hardly bear hearing her sordid story. For one thing, it made me legally liable—I’m required to report cases of child abuse. I had no idea what to say to this woman.

At last I asked if she had ever thought of going to a church for help. I will never forget the look of pure, naïve shock that crossed her face. “Church!” she cried. “Why would I ever go there? I was already feeling terrible about myself. They’d just make me feel worse.”14

Yancey goes on to reflect that people, the worst of people, always seemed to be drawn to Jesus rather than repelled by him. In fact, the drawing seemed to be in direct proportion to the depths to which the person had sunk. How is it possible for a church, which claims to be the body of Christ, to repel the type of people who were so drawn to Jesus himself?

In some branches of modern Christianity we seem to have latched onto the thought that the most important truth to which we can call the world is the holiness of God—a vitally important spiritual truth! As we see the moral fiber of our cultures decaying, unraveling before our eyes, we can become fixated on shouting against the decay lest we be lost in it. But if we are not careful, grace can get lost amid our shouts. We can, in effect, be perceived as dragging people to the foot of Mount Sinai, attempting to hold their heads back and forcing them to face the storm, feel the red-hot flash of lightning, and tremble at the weighty Voice. Most unholy people still do not like Sinai and will respond, “I don’t want to listen to that voice anymore!” In short, if we bear a message of ungrace, they run the other way when they see us coming.

Although it is true that the path to Mount Zion brushes past Mount Sinai—the holiness of God is a foundational aspect of the message of true grace—Zion must loom large in our vision and the vision of Christianity that we communicate to others. It would be a shame if people never hear the music of the heavenly Jerusalem because the thunder of our Sinai drowns it out, if they never move past trembling Moses to meet Jesus, who stands with his outstretched hands.

(2) Are we calling people to relationship? In a recent letter to Dear Abby, an elderly couple who had retired and moved to Florida expressed a sad experience too frequent in modern Christianity. They had chosen to live in a small town because of its beauty and slow-paced lifestyle. Their primary attempt at building relationships had been to join a church, but the social network within that church had been such that after months of trying, reaching out to others for friendship, they gave up. The public messages and PR had proclaimed a hearty “come and belong,” but their experience within that community proclaimed otherwise.

We must reflect on the ease or unease with which people assimilate into our churches. In the church to which I belong we struggle on the “unease” end of the scale, and the difficulty of meaningfully embracing people into the fellowship is a perennial issue. From my conversations with pastors I sense the problem is almost universal. What are the social, programmatic, cultural, and theological dynamics that hinder that assimilation? How can we build a community that reflects the unity, the festive gathering of Mount Zion? We are that community! We have already come to the new covenant mountain. How can we live that truth out? Correspondingly, is our preaching, teaching, and living of theology introducing people to the relational God of Zion or to the hidden God of Sinai? I realize, of course, that God is both. We must remember, however, that the author of Hebrews here presents us with two visions of people vis-à-vis God. Are those to whom we minister encouraged to draw near to or run away from God?

(3) Are we calling people to joy? In Joy Davidman’s delightful little book Smoke on the Mountain, she reflects on the Sabbath by telling of a Martian anthropology student who has been sent to earth for an assignment. The student sweeps over the United States on a fine Sunday morning, writing furiously with his writing tentacle. In his report he notes that creatures of the third planet are obviously sun worshipers, this one day in seven set aside for religious observance. The sometimes loud and rowdy rituals are conducted in open air, drawing large crowds to arenas or bodies of water. Some of the religion’s mystics address a holy ball—a solar symbol—by themselves or in groups of three or four with long clubs in open green fields. Others go down to the ocean, stripping almost naked and hurling themselves in ecstasy into the waves. When they are exhausted, they anoint their bodies with holy oils and lay flat on the ground, surrendering completely to the deity.

The Martian goes on to tell of a small group of unbelievers who have rejected sun worship. They dress soberly and gather behind closed doors in stained-glass buildings, obviously designed to keep the sunlight out. Their faces and gestures demonstrate none of the “almost orgiastic religious frenzy with which the sun worshipers pursue their devotions.” In fact, they almost appear placid, “indicating minds blank of thought or emotion.”

Reflecting then on contemporary Christian believers and their lack of sheer joy in their Christianity, Davidman asks:

Was the Martian wildly wrong, or fantastically right?

… So the unbelievers must go on with their games. But what of the believers? It is so easy for them to be tempted into joining the games, first now and then, later as a habit; finally, the uneasy sense of something forgotten on Sunday morning gradually fades away entirely, and faith in God perishes not by conviction but by disuse. Even many who do come to church come out of a dull sense of duty rather than a joyous sense of devotion—the life has gone out of their belief.15

Davidman is concerned with how joy has somehow been leeched from Sunday worship, yet her concern is more broadly relevant. Do we live joyfully in our covenant with God? From the picture of the Mount Zion festivities, especially seen in the angelic assembly, we are terribly out of place or out of step with eternity if we do not. Furthermore, if we do not live joyfully, reflecting the reality of the heavenly Jerusalem, how can we invite people to that reality? If our lives reflect the gloom of Sinai more than the excitement of Zion, we do the kingdom poor publicity. This does not mean, of course, that we always are thrilled with our situations; but are we characterized by joy? That is a key question. If we are not, then the reality of Zion is not invading our lives. Perhaps we need a clearer view of that mountain and must hear again the song of the angels and the message of the sprinkled blood.

An orientation to the future grace of God. Many Christians seem content to live with their lives oriented to past expressions of God’s grace, such as a conversion experience, a time during which God manifested himself unusually through answered prayer, or a time of special spiritual vitality. But God’s workings of grace and our need for faith must not be relegated to past experiences. We must hear God now and we need hope for the future, hope that finds energy in faith and accesses the grace of God for the needs of tomorrow. Thus, we must have a holistic interaction with the grace of God—one that rejoices in past experiences, interfaces with the Lord in the present, and trusts him with the future. On the interaction of God’s past and future grace in the Christian life, John Piper notes:

There is a sense in which gratitude and faith are interwoven joys that strengthen each other. As gratitude joyfully revels in the benefits of past grace, so faith joyfully relies on the benefits of future grace. Therefore when gratitude for God’s past grace is strong, the message is sent that God is supremely trustworthy in the future because of what he has done in the past. In this way faith is strengthened by a lively gratitude for God’s past trustworthiness.

On the other hand, when faith in God’s future grace is strong, the message is sent that this kind of God makes no mistakes, so that everything he has done in the past is part of a good plan and can be remembered with gratitude. In this way gratitude is strengthened by a lively faith in God’s future grace.16

The person who claims an experience of past grace but senses no need for present interaction with the Lord or for future grace at the coming of Christ, may not be living biblical faith, and his or her relationship with Christ is suspect.17 Faith in the grace of God means that I embrace Christ in all his biblical roles: as high priest and sacrifice for my sins, as intercessor, and as Lord of the universe, who in the future will “shake the heavens and the earth.”

This is why the author of Hebrews can follow the portrait of new covenant relationship (12:22–24) with the harsh warning of 12:25–29. His warning reminds us that biblical grace links all the workings of God in our lives in a continuum. Those who grasp the gravity of God’s future judgment of the world, living their lives in light of God’s will and trusting God’s grace for that moment, find that God’s grace is working its way back into the present. Hope in that grace for the future has a powerful, transforming effect on the present (1 John 3:3).

Theologian Jürgen Moltmann has noted that Christian theologizing about the end of the world remains sterile unless that future event is allowed to exert an impact on present thought and action.18 This is true Christian hope concerning the coming of Christ, a hope that not only comforts concerning the future but also transforms the present. If one truly grasps the reality of biblical eschatology—that heaven breaks into earth and will one day consummate that inbreaking—it changes everything. How I think and live will be changed in light of that transforming vision. That knowledge of the coming shaking of the world, the End, can cause me to evaluate in what I am investing my life. Thus the Christian lives now in light of the unseen then, when Christ will appear. The Christian lives for what will be stable eternally.

This view separates what is real from what is unreal. What is real is what will last. Everything else, no matter how real it seems to us, is treated as insubstantial, hardly worth a snort. That is why Scripture can seem at times so blithely and irritatingly out of touch with reality, brushing past huge philosophical problems and personal agony. That is just how life is, when you are looking from the end. Perspective changes everything.19

This commitment to valuing that which is of eternal value was embodied in the five young missionaries who sought to reach out to a group of Indians in the rain forest of Ecuador in the late 1950s. Jim Elliot and his four companions had spent months planning the outreach to the Aucas, Stone-Age killers who had come to distrust any contact with the outside world. Yet the effort ended in a seeming tragedy. Just two days prior to the fateful day of their murders, Elliot and the others had met three of the Indians on the sandy beach that the missionaries used as an air strip. The meeting was friendly and heightened the hopes of those who had come to share the gospel.

When they returned some forty-eight hours later, the missionaries waited expectantly for their newfound friends to arrive. But before 4:30 that afternoon these young ministers had given their lives, slain with spears by the men with whom they had hoped to share Christ. The world called it a nightmare—and it was tragic. Yet the cost of that terrible moment must be weighed ultimately on the scales of eternal values. Seven years prior, in 1949, Jim Elliot had penned a now-famous quote that puts the loss in perspective: “He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.”20

Hebrews challenges us to live in light of that which cannot be lost, the unshakable kingdom of God. We “gain what we cannot lose” by trusting in God’s grace of the past, present, and future, heeding the Word of God, and living in reverent awe of him. May we be found living in light of eternity today.

Original Meaning

The New Covenant Mountain (12:22–24)

THANKFULLY, NEW COVENANT believers have not come to Mount Sinai, a mountain of terror and separation from God. Rather, they have come to Mount Zion, the dwelling place of God. The author balances his previous list of seven dynamics related to Mount Sinai with seven here:

(1) the heavenly Jerusalem, the city of the living God

(2) thousands upon thousands of angels in joyful assembly

(3) the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven

(4) God, the judge of all people

(5) the spirits of the righteous made perfect

(6) Jesus, the mediator of a new covenant

(7) the sprinkled blood that speaks better than the blood of Abel

These images may be understood as creating a picture of the new covenant assembly in the heavenly Jerusalem, and the contrast with the Sinai encounter could not be more pronounced. William Lane comments:

Every aspect of the vision provides encouragement for coming boldly into the presence of God (cf. 4:16). The atmosphere at Mount Zion is festive. The frightening visual imagery of blazing fire, darkness, and gloom fades before the reality of the city of the living God, heavenly Jerusalem. The cacophony of whirlwind, trumpet blast, and a sound of words is muted and replaced by the joyful praise of angels in a festal gathering. The trembling congregation of Israel, gathered solemnly at the base of the mountain, is superseded by the assembly of those whose names are permanently inscribed in the heavenly archives. An overwhelming impression of the unapproachability of God is eclipsed in the experience of full access to the presence of God and of Jesus, the mediator of the new covenant.2

The author’s picture of the gathered assembly at Mount Zion, therefore, communicates exultation, warmth, openness, acceptance, and relationship, set off in bold relief against the dismal portrait of the Sinai assembly.

Mount Zion and the city of Jerusalem are so closely associated in the biblical literature that the two should be understood as conceptually synonymous, representing the dwelling place of God.3 Sometimes Zion is mentioned alone as God’s residence (e.g., Ps. 2:6; 50:2; 110:2); but in other places Zion and Jerusalem are mentioned in poetic parallelism (e.g., Joel 2:32; Mic. 4:2), as at Amos 1:2: “The LORD roars from Zion and thunders from Jerusalem.”4 Thus the Greek word kai (often translated “and” but left untranslated by the NIV ) between “Mount Zion” and “the city” may be read as adjunctive, meaning “even”: “You have come to Mount Zion, even the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem.”5

Here, of course, as indicated by the adjective “heavenly” attached to “Jerusalem,” the author has in mind the Zion and Jerusalem that are not of this creation (cf. Gal. 4:26). That God’s true dwelling place, the place where he meets his new covenant people, is in the heavenly realm, forms a prominent aspect of the author’s theological framework (e.g., 4:14–16; 6:19–20; 7:26–28; 8:1–2). This is the “heavenly city” of 11:16 and the “city that is to come” of 13:14.

The multitude of angels in God’s presence exults “in joyful assembly” (panegyris), a noun only found here in the New Testament. In secular literature this word was used of parties or the celebratory atmosphere at the annual athletic competitions, such as the Olympics. In the LXX, it speaks of a multitudinous gathering to celebrate an occasion of joy or delight, often associated with a feast (e.g., Ezek. 46:11; Hos. 2:11; 9:5; Amos 5:21).6 Thus, the word communicates a sense of excitement, revelry, and well-being.

The word ekklesia, translated “church” by the NIV , almost always refers in biblical literature to a gathering or assembly of God’s people.7 The author has already referred to the Son as “the firstborn” (1:6). However, the plural of this word in 12:23 and the reference to these “firstborn” as having their names “written in heaven” indicate that God’s new covenant people are in view here. The idea that the righteous have their names inscribed in a heavenly registry is common (e.g., Ex. 32:32; Ps. 69:29; Isa. 4:3; Dan. 12:1; Luke 10:20). The “firstborn,” therefore, are those who share the inheritance of the Son, the Firstborn par excellence.8

Those addressed by Hebrews also have come “to God, the judge of all men,” and “to the spirits of righteous men made perfect.” The position of the word “judge,” which precedes the word “God” in the Greek text, makes the former emphatic. Participants in the new covenant have come “to a judge, the God of all.” That he is “the God of all” demonstrates his right to pass judgment, and in some forms of apocalyptic literature Mount Zion was understood as the mountain of God’s eschatological judgment of the whole earth (4 Ezra 13:1–39).9 The author probably has in mind a strong note of the vindication of God’s righteous people, a prominent theme in portions of Scripture (e.g., Ps. 9:8; 58:11; 82:8; 94:2; 96:13; 119:84; Isa. 11:4; Jer. 22:16; Lam. 3:59). For example, Psalm 9:7–12 reads:

The LORD reigns forever;

he has established his throne for judgment.

He will judge the world in righteousness;

he will govern the peoples with justice.

The LORD is a refuge for the oppressed,

a stronghold in times of trouble.

Those who know your name will trust in you,

for you, LORD, have never forsaken those who seek you.

Sing praises to the LORD, enthroned in Zion;

proclaim among the nations what he has done.

For he who avenges blood remembers;

he does not ignore the cry of the afflicted.

In line with this motif of vindication, the new covenant people have not come to Mount Zion for God to pass judgment on them, but for him to vindicate them before their wicked persecutors.

In the next breath the writer hastens to point to “the spirits of righteous men [and women] made perfect” by God’s divine grace. This phrase probably designates the godly who have already died, since the expression is a common idiom used thus in Jewish apocalyptic.10 These have been “made perfect forever” by the sacrifice of Christ (10:14).

The author already has gone to great lengths to show Jesus as the mediator of the new covenant, whose sprinkled blood cleanses completely and for all time from sin (8:7–13; 9:11–14; 10:15–18). But what does the author mean when he refers to the blood of Christ as speaking “a better word than the blood of Abel”? After Abel was killed by Cain, his blood “cried out” to God for judgment (Gen. 4:10). Abel’s blood bore witness against Cain, indicating his guilt. Christ’s blood, on the other hand, has won our forgiveness, “crying out” that people of the new covenant are no longer guilty, having been cleansed completely from sin.