TEXT: Joshua 3:7-17
The Gospel in the Present Tense
As the great sage Yogi Berra once
said, “It’s ‘déjà vu’ all over again.”
We’ve heard this story before, haven’t we? In a way.
Any patient reader who began at the trailhead of
Almost. These watercourse contortions are not just parlor tricks for the kids, nor theme-park re-creations for the vicarious thrill of the guests. However much genuine assistance they may have provided the people, at their core they were dramatic confirmations. The humbling, disconcerting truth seems to be that the lessons of history have very little traction. It appears that we have to keep learning them again and again. And so it’s never finally enough to know that God has been active in the past. The implicit question every generation finally gets down to hurling heavenward is “What have you done for me lately?” As impressive as the “mighty acts of God” may appear to us as we read about them in the lives of our forbears, we don’t manage to find them sufficiently compelling to plant on them our own frail feet.
Hence, this freshly intimidating
river. OK, maybe “intimidating” is a
slight exaggeration. OK, maybe it is
even a gross exaggeration. The
The narrator ratchets up the
tension by ominously noting that the crossing occurred at the time of the
spring harvest, when the river is swollen by rains and the melting of mountain
snows. It’s true that
In the end – and quite apart from
whatever hazards might have actually been presented by the seasonal runoff –
the navigational barrier confronting the Israelites likely had more to do with
what was gurgling inside than in front
of them. Indeed, the biblical lexicon of
images frequently uses water as a kind of psychical shorthand. The Hebrew imagination used water to paint
evil, chaos, mystery. In Creation, it
was water that God needed to tame and push away in order to make room for the
orderliness of dry land. In the later
story of sin and re-creation, order – dry land – is doused again by the chaotic
floods. Water carries with it ominous
implications. Stories of deliverance
routinely involve rescue from the watery threat – Noah, the infant Moses from
the river, the Israelites through the
The disciple Peter was terrified
when his “lack of faith” caused him to start sinking into the water he was
seeking to walk across, less because he feared drowning, I suspect, than he
dreaded contact with the murky, mysterious terrors that slithered and groped
beneath the surface. Even baptism, in
its way, continues the symbolic theme of rescue from water. And is it any wonder that in John’s vision of
the
All of which is easy to observe in retrospect; meanwhile, a river ominously rumbles across the Israelites path, and forward progress is stalled. It is interesting that when Moses led the people across the river, the threat was approaching the Israelites from the rear – in the form of a chasing and rapidly approaching Egyptian army. This time, the threat is confronting the people from ahead – primarily in the form of murky anxieties and apprehensions about what the watery future might have in store.
Earlier, while Moses was still in charge, a reconnaissance team had brought back reports of the land’s abundance – grapes the size of bowling balls, and rivers flowing with mild and honey. But they also mentioned the presence of giants who dominated the land. Despite the fact that a more recent report from spies had asserted that the land was “given into their hands,” visions of those imposing giants no doubt haunted the people’s imagination – literal giants, perhaps, but certainly the giant undertaking of claiming, settling and familiarizing themselves with a dramatically new land and categorically different way of life. After all this time of wandering, what would it mean to settle? After all this time “on the way,” what would it mean to arrive? After generations organized for portability, what would it mean to organize for stability?
A swollen river cut across the Israelites path, then, that both hindered and protected. Hopeful, but fearful, anxious but apprehensive, intrigued but intimidated, the people camped. From the safety of their tents and fires, they fretted and fidgeted; impatient, but ultimately paralyzed.
“Who can help us? Who can save us? Moses is dead.” Where is the gospel in the present tense? So it was that…
“The LORD said to Joshua, ‘This day I
will begin to exalt you in the sight of all
And a subtle, but significant
phenomenon occurs. Sure, the river
parts and the people pass safely – and dryly – through. Even a casual reader has come to expect no
less. It isn’t so much the “what” this
time as the “who” and the “how.” Despite
the opening dialogue between God and Joshua, the story doesn’t finally
spotlight one charismatic mover and shaker.
While the first water crossing featured Moses in the starring role – he
hears, he leads, he steps forward, he stretches out his arms and holds them up
at considerable muscular fatigue – in this story, Joshua plays a symbolic but
less instrumental role. He hears the
initial command, but then passes it on.
He is neither the one who carries the
It was a
faith the people would have to trust, not merely posit. The story includes the fascinating detail
that “when those who bore the ark had
come to the Jordan, and the feet of the priests bearing the ark were dipped in
the edge of the water, 16the waters flowing from
above stood still…” There was no
luxury of standing and watching from a safe and shady distance while the way
cleared before taking further steps forward.
The children of
Today we are pausing with the
church universal to remember and give thanks.
Ostensibly, All Saints Day is set aside to recall those beloved
individuals – both local and legendary – who uniquely and transparently bore
witness to the living and moving God; those who helped animate our collective
spiritual vitality in days now past. We
call their names, picture their faces, and inhale again the fresh breeze of
their legacy. But hopefully we’ll do
more. The power of All Saints Day is the
graphic comprehension that God’s Spirit and purpose stir in the lives of the
present tense. As God was with Moses, so
God is with Joshua. As God was with the
saints whose names are fresh on our lips, so God is with us. If we forget or neglect that assurance, we
become a museum, a mausoleum, rather than a missionary people living as a sign,
foretaste and instrument of God’s reign; eviscerated by the memories, rather
than invigorated.
So what rivers wash threateningly across the paths ahead of us, and have we any hope of crossing them? We could start by remembering similar barriers past and how they were finally traversed. But eventually any progress will require that we grip our fingers around the conviction that the movement and vision of God have as much to do with this moment as that remembered one, and faithfully, trustfully, be willing to get our feet wet.
The “Promised Land,” after all, is waiting – on the other side.