Consider two mountains.

One is volcanic. Terrifyingly so. There is a little sign at the base:  “touch and die.” Some people want to approach it for the adrenaline rush, the fear factor.

A crowd gathers around that mountain. There is something compelling about complaining about the fear. There is something comforting about being banned. We know where we are. We aren’t required to change. At least not if we are comfortable cringing from the one who scares us.

There is, by the way, a voice reading the sign. It is loud. It seems harsh. The cringing cowering crowd cries out “stop talking!”

There is another mountain.

Somewhere away from that first mountain, though visible if we tear our eyes away from the dark-flashing lightening or peek through fingers glued tightly to buried faces, is a bright glow.

Not like garish neon or sky-sweeping spotlights is the glow. Maybe like the bright lights approaching your stalled Chevy, terrifying you then becoming a rescuing wrecker. Much like the Christmas-light-drenched house that you hated decorating but now would love to see again, would give anything to call home.

That warmly-bright mountain is rich with every story of going home, of relationship restored, of terror resolved. Hordes of avenging angels turn out to be on our side. The dreaded judge isn’t bribed by the bad guys. The martyrs are smiling after all, seeing that the soul-wrenching struggle actually didn’t touch the soul. The dead Jesus, the vanished Jesus, the invisible Jesus, stands comfortably, confidently, alive.

And the blood.

Abel’s blood, as if in a Poe short story, cried out “God, I’m killed.” Jesus’ blood says “I’m God, killed.” And then adds “for you.” Not gross. Grace.

That mountain, exhilarating and inviting, is where we’re invited for conversation, if we abandon our fascination with foreboding.