Texts: Joshua 4:19-24; 5:9-12 ... 2 Corinthians 5:17-21 ... Luke 15:11-32
After some 40 years of wilderness wandering, a period begun with a providentially-arranged crossing of a body of water, the people of God were brought at last to the land long-promised, which they entered by crossing, again under divine power, another body of water. Stones were carried from the exposed river bed and mounded, 12 of them, at the place named Gilgal, one stone for each tribe, a sign for all future generations that the Lord had guided them, had led them powerfully, had fulfilled for them the promise long given, whose fulfilment had been long awaited.
It was 40 years, and not much shorter, because the people sinned against the Lord. Still the Lord cared for them, and he manifested his care in the miraculous provision of daily bread. Manna, found on the ground six days out of seven (on the sixth day a double portion that would not rot on the seventh)—manna was the sweet and comforting sign that God was with them day by day. It was as if God held their hand every day for 40 years.
So at the end of what we read today from Joshua, the people having crossed the Jordan and about to take possession of the land of promise, there is I think a line of high poignancy: The manna ceased on the morrow, when they ate of the produce of the land; and the people of Israel had manna no more.
God no longer places bread in their hand; now he has placed them in the land. Manna has come to an end, and they must grow up into the promise. Many other things will come to an end. Petals of a rose turn to dust. Man breathes his last. Sun and moon cease to shine. Some of these endings are just sad, but others are connected with promises fulfilled. Saint John the Theologian says that in the city that will come down from heaven there will be no temple, no lamps. There are no churches in heaven, no sacraments, and no need of any source of light, because the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb (Rev 21:23).
But to see by his light, the light of the Lamb of God, requires a mature citizenry. When the time is ripe, one must heed the call to grow up, to let go of what has been comfortable and sweet, no matter how long one has had to get used to it. No record is made in Joshua of the people grumbling because God was no longer giving them their daily bread. There was something new and better. Maturity rises to accept the new.
The new thing that God did in Jesus Christ was, according to Saint Paul, his reconciling the world to himself. Why does he call salvation “reconciliation”? Because sin is division. When you are alienated from yourself, from your surroundings, from other people, and from God, what you need above all else is reconciliation—the putting back together of things. And that is precisely what salvation in Christ is. Jesus Christ, true God and true man, united what had been torn apart by sin; and even in death did not fail to accomplish his mission. And that mission, that new thing, has been handed on to us. It is the call of Christian maturity to accept it. Again, Saint Paul: God through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation. Your job, my job, the church’s job is to promote the reconciliation of all things, which is not pie-in-the-sky but truly possible in Christ.
The great question is, Will we rise to what maturity demands, will we accept this new thing in Christ? Or will we grumble and cling to the old?
…He learned from one of the servants that his father’s other son had come back, and that his father was preparing an extraordinarily lavish banquet to celebrate his return—despite the fact that this other son had taken his share already and gone away and blown the whole thing and made nothing of his life; a complete waste, a complete scoundrel. He thought of how, himself, he had stayed at home and been pious and had worked according to all the rules. He thought, that fatted calf that father has just killed for this banquet, it’s mine, it’s part of my share. He thought, it’s not fair.
Is it unfair? I once heard Fred Craddock at the College of Preachers say, From about half a block away, mercy looks like unfairness. Are we going to say God is unfair? The teaching of Jesus is relentless. A man hired some day-laborers and agreed to pay them the going wage for a day’s work, and they went to work. Later in the day he hired some more. And then some more. He even hired some just one hour before quitting time. They were all paid a full day’s wage. And those who worked all day said, It’s not fair.
Now of course, faith believes that it is fair, but faith need not pretend it understands how it is so. We cannot see how God is at once perfect justice and also infinite mercy. The question that matters is not what do we understand, but what will we do. Everything here hangs on little decisions. In the presence of God’s mercy, which (let’s admit it) looks like unfairness, will we rise to the opportunity and accept our role in the ministry of reconciliation? Or will we sulk, and bad-mouth, and belittle, and speak badly of, and nurse our sense of the unfairness of it all—and stay out of the banquet the father has prepared?
I will say this for the elder brother of the parable: it is not easy to adjust to the new reality of mercy when it crosses your life. For thousands and thousands of years, human beings have lived as we are, in this wilderness world marred by violence, alienation, and death. Theologically, we say that such lives are lived in a state of sin. But because sin is pervasive, because the only world we know is the one that is fallen, we tend to think that this world, and the kind of life we live, is not only natural, but not too bad. I’ve never committed murder, we might say. I’ve never stolen, never committed adultery, never lied under oath. Or at least I haven’t made a habit of doing any of these things. Of course there are people who do wicked things—we don’t deny that. But the rest of us, people like me and thee, we are pretty good folk, all things considered. In fact, if all the people in the world were only like us, there really wouldn’t have had to be all that messy stuff with the nails, the blood, the death.
What foolish people we are, to say such things! It shows we don’t really believe in sin, not in the first person, not when it comes to us! We imagine that when our funeral comes, people will say nice things about us, and the elegant prayers will be uttered, and at the end people will leave with sadness at our passing yet with a sense that their loss is God’s gain. Never do we imagine someone saying, Here is another person Jesus had to die for.
The first step of Christian maturity is to realize I am a sinner, that even if everyone else in the whole world were perfect, Jesus would have had to die—for me. God’s mercy experienced in the first person—then one realizes that what looks like unfairness over there is the same kindness that we have received already. This is the foundation of Christian citizenship, on the basis of which one eventually comes to live without manna in the kingdom of light. God has reconciled you in Christ. Let us be mature Christians. Let us be ministers of reconciliation.
