Justus Hunter ~ Be Careful What You Wish For
Be careful what you wish for.
When I was a boy, I wished for my father’s pen. Delicate but solid, just the sort of instrument a thoughtful man should carry. It was a black pen with gold accents. It composed sermons, paid bills, signed greeting cards. That pen was always near his hand.
Just as it began, Israel’s traverse through the wilderness concludes with a river crossing. Forty years after the Red Sea divided, and all of Israel walked through, God held back the Jordan River for His people to enter the promised land. For 40 years, a full generation, the Israelites wandered. They fed on manna from heaven. They forged an identity. That identity was founded, not upon their slavery, their oppression, but on their union with the God who brought them out of Egypt, who brought them across the Red Sea. The same God who Moses praised: “Sing to the Lord, for he has triumphed gloriously; horse and rider he has thrown into the sea.” The same God conversed with the same Moses. The same God guided the same people through the wilderness, in spite of their grumbling.
And the same people came to the shores of the Jordan, but without the same Moses. In his place was his servant, Joshua, son of Nun, voice of the Lord. They came with an ark, designed by the same God. Expertly crafted. That ark, the ark of the covenant, was the footstool of the throne of the same God who parted the Red Sea.
And that ark was delicately, precisely handled by ones called by that same God. The handlers, the priests, like the gold and timber of the ark’s construction, were selected by God, called to this particular work. Their call, unlike ours, was handed down by birth – the Levites. But it was a call. It was a directive.
And in Joshua 4, we see these called-ones, these priests, spiritual leaders who go before God on behalf of the people, we see them. We see them, but we do not hear them. In a passage marked by orders, commands, and directives, by the leaders of the people, by Joshua, and by God, we hear nothing from the priests.
The priests, like the masses of people, remain silent, obedient. They make no remark; the are merely remarkable. Watch them.
Now the Jordan overflows all its banks throughout the time of harvest. So 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, the waters flowing from above stood still, rising up in a single heap far off at Adam, the city that is beside Zarethan, while those flowing toward the sea of the Arabah, the Dead Sea, were wholly cut off. Then the people crossed over opposite Jericho. While all Israel were crossing over on dry ground, the priests who bore the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood on dry ground in the middle of the Jordan, until the entire nation finished crossing over the Jordan.
The call of the priests was exhilarating. The waters piled up! And so they passed into the middle of the Jordan. And there, they stop. They stand still “while the people hurried and crossed.” The people hurried. Imagine their descent, anxiety heightening, the far side nearing, the safety of the bank behind them growing further. Then, they reach a point, the middle, the point of highest vulnerability. And there they pass the priests. They leave them behind. And as they pass, they release a sigh of relief. “The people hurried and crossed.”
But the priests. Carrying the ark, they stood still on dry ground in the middle of the Jordan. While the water piled far beyond their sight, did they wonder how long it would be until the surge returned, more powerful at its release? How did the weight of the ark, the throne of God, feel on their shoulders? How great was the pressure to wilt under the weight, the weight of their call?
How often we feel this weight, this pressure to wilt under the call of God. When you heard the call of God to come to this place, wasn’t it exhilarating? Did you not find the courage to step out into the waters? And did you not witness marvels? Did you not wonder at the marvel of your call, the feel of this weight on your shoulders?
But maybe now you find yourself called to stand still, to stand in the middle of the Jordan and wait. And maybe you’re wondering whether or not the river is about to break around the bend and sweep you down river. Or maybe you are wondering how much longer you can hold up under this weight, the burden. Will it crush you? And maybe you’re learning this lesson: while it sounded glorious, exhilarating, to be the first one in and the last one out, maybe it’s better to be one of the ones hurrying across, whirring ahead toward the promised land. Service to this God is populated with such moments. The ones who look on in awe as the waters dry up at first contact with the soles of your shoes, they are soon speeding along, leaving you behind with the weight of your call.
But surely they will remember us. Surely, once they reach the far shore, they will remember the ones who stood still in the middle of the Jordan. Surely.
Then Joshua summoned the twelve men from the Israelites, whom he had appointed, one from each tribe. Joshua said to them, “Pass on before the ark of the Lord your God into the middle of the Jordan, and each of you take up a stone on his shoulder, one for each of the tribes of the Israelites, so that this may be a sign among you. When your children ask in time to come, ‘What do those stones mean to you?’ then you shall tell them that the waters of the Jordan were cut off in front of the ark of the covenant of the Lord. When it crossed over the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. So these stones shall be to the Israelites a memorial forever.”
“When IT crossed the Jordan.” IT crossed. But it was carried! What about the priests, the called ones, the carriers?
The Lord said to Joshua, “Command the priests who bear the ark of the covenant, to come up out of the Jordan.” Joshua therefore commanded the priests, “Come up out of the Jordan.” When the priests bearing the ark of the covenant of the Lord came up from the middle of the Jordan, and the soles of the priests’ feet touched dry ground, the waters of the Jordan returned to their place and overflowed all its banks, as before.
The people came up out of the Jordan on the tenth day of the first month, and they camped in Gilgal on the east border of Jericho. Those twelve stones, which they had taken out of the Jordan, Joshua set up in Gilgal, saying to the Israelites, “When your children ask their parents in time to come, ‘What do these stones mean?’ then you shall let your children know, ‘Israel crossed over the Jordan here on dry ground.’ For the Lord your God dried up the waters of the Jordan for you until you crossed over, as the Lord your God did to the Red Sea, which he dried up for us until we crossed over, so that all the peoples of the earth may know that the hand of the Lord is mighty, and so that you may fear the Lord your God forever.”
Stones of remembrance, the mighty hand of the Lord, and silent priests. The stones cry out. They testify to the act of God, who crossed the Jordan enthroned upon the ark. The act of God. Seated upon that throne, bearing heavy upon the called-ones shoulders, passing through their bodies, God made contact with those stones. And so the stones are gathered.
Here we see the peril and the promise called-ones. The twelve come. They gather the stones at your feet. They heap those stones, stones of remembrance, stones your children’s children will ask about. But the names and the images of the called-ones are forgotten. They are wiped away like rough edges of stone in the bed of the Jordan. The priests are silent while the stones cry out.
Called-ones, could you wish for this?
Be careful what you wish for.
When I was a boy, I wished for my father’s pen. Delicate but solid, just the sort of instrument a thoughtful man should carry. It was a black pen with gold accents. It composed sermons, paid bills, signed greeting cards. That pen was always near his hand.
A few months ago, he took it from his table, reached out and asked me, “Do you want this?” “Seriously?” I asked. “Yeah, they gave it to me at my ordination.” He said it casually. Commonplace. No big deal. But it was a big deal. After years of labor, years of faithful service, years marked by moments of excitement, fruit, and moments of frustration, of maltreatment, last Fall he left the active ministry. To some minds, it was not a remarkable career. But he is remarkable. He stood still in the middle of the Jordan, for as long as God directed. And over time, as the Spirit washed over him, he came to peace with his legacy, with how and by whom he would be remembered.
“Do you want it?” he said. Casually. Commonplace. No big deal. He was at peace.
Do you want it?
Be careful what you wish for.