Pilgrimage (18 page)

I love this glimpse of a Bible hero as human and fallible. Born in Egypt, Joshua had seen the ten plagues in person, experienced God’s miraculous rescue from the angel of death, walked through the Red Sea with walls of water towering on each side of him. He had followed the pillar of fire through the wilderness, eaten manna, and sipped water from the rock. Joshua had remained faithful when nearly everyone else in his generation had failed, and he was one of only two spies who believed God and gave a good report about the Promised Land. At every opportunity to give in to fear or to complain or to worship false gods, Joshua had chosen to trust God again and again. He was one of only a handful of people still alive who had journeyed with God all the way from Egypt, and God had chosen him to take Moses’ place after his death.

And now Joshua had made a terrible mistake. He had compromised with the enemy. Did he feel like kicking
himself? Did he go into his tent and weep with frustration over his failure? Frankly, I think he did. Joshua is not a flat storybook character but a flesh-and-blood person, like me. And he must have felt certain that God was all finished with him.

Before Joshua could write his letter of resignation, a messenger arrived from Gibeon—the city he had just made his foolish alliance with. The kings of five powerful city-states had formed a coalition and were marching toward Gibeon to attack it. The people of Gibeon pleaded with Joshua for help, begging him to honor the treaty and save them. Joshua, whose name means “The Lord saves,” must have wondered if he had forfeited the right to save anyone. But God said, “Do not be afraid of them; I have given them into your hand. Not one of them will be able to withstand you” (Joshua 10:8).

There it is: God’s grace, mercy, and forgiveness, even in the Old Testament. Joshua could pick himself up and go forward after he’d failed—and so can we. Joshua mustered Israel’s army and marched to the rescue.

The city of Gibeon is in Israel’s central highlands, and getting there from where Joshua was camped required an uphill journey of more than fifteen miles. The road back after we’ve disobeyed always seems uphill, doesn’t it? Maybe the strenuous effort will remind us not to repeat our mistake. Joshua’s rescue at Gibeon succeeded, and the five invading armies retreated down the Valley of Aijalon. But Joshua wanted a thorough victory. This time he would do it right and destroy every last enemy. No more compromises. But he was running out of daylight—and so he prayed.

In response, the heavens unleashed an arsenal of hailstones, God’s cannonballs, striking down the enemy as they ran.
Then a miracle: The sun stood still! It continued to shine until every last enemy was hunted down and destroyed.

As the tide of battle began to turn, the five enemy kings hid inside a cave. “Roll boulders in front of the entrance,” Joshua told his men, “so they can’t escape. We’ll deal with them after the battle is finished” (see Joshua 10:18–19). When that time came, he ordered his commanders to stand with their feet on the defeated kings’ necks. “This is what the Lord will do to all the enemies you are going to fight,” he told them (Joshua 10:25). The bodies of the slain kings were hung on a tree, a sign designated by God to show that they are under His curse (Deuteronomy 21:22–23).

Before we gave our lives to Christ, the Bible says that we were enemies of God like these Canaanites, following the false gods of our culture, living by our own rules. Because of our sin, we were under a death sentence like they were, like all of disobedient mankind is. But “Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us” (Galatians 3:13). “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness” (1 Peter 2:24).

The day that Jesus freed us from that curse was one of the darkest days ever recorded. The sun stopped shining from noon until three in the afternoon as Jesus hung on the cross. Darkness represents divine judgment, and as Jesus, “the light of the world,” suffered God’s curse on the cross, darkness threatened to engulf the world. For a few hours, it seemed as though the darkness was winning. But Jesus overcame the darkness.

He has done more than His part in the war we’re fighting, but His orders to us are clear: “Put to death the misdeeds of the body” (Romans 8:13). That means not holding grudges. Not losing my temper or speaking unloving words.
Not coveting. Forgiving others. And it means conquering any fortresses that are still under enemy control. God fights with me and for me, but compromising with sin is not an option. Am I courageous enough to go to war?

God told the Jewish people to fast and pray each year on the Day of Atonement, examining their lives and confessing their sins. Before partaking of Christ’s body and blood at Communion we are told, “A man ought to examine himself” (1 Corinthians 11:28). Repentance is so much more than a halfhearted confession. Any parent who has asked a naughty child for an apology knows what a reluctant, sullen “sorry” sounds like. The word
repent
means to do a complete reversal, turning our back on our sins, taking a brand-new road, walking in an entirely new direction—like Joshua did when he turned his back on compromise and began to fight. If we truly repent, God is merciful and will forgive us, just as He forgave Joshua. But my Jewish friends also tell me that if you find yourself confessing the same sin the following year on the Day of Atonement, something is terribly wrong. I try to remember that warning when I prepare for Communion.

We’re commanded to consider ourselves dead to sin, not keep it on life-support or make a peace treaty with it. This requires change, a word most of us hate. No matter how we say it: “Do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its evil desires” or “Do not offer the parts of your body to sin” (Romans 6:12–13), God’s instructions to us sound remarkably like His command to Joshua: “Utterly destroy the enemy.” I have a long way to go.

God caused the sun to stand still, allowing Joshua to fight, and now He wants to shine His light into all the dark corners of my heart, revealing areas where I have compromised, showing
me strongholds that are still under enemy control. If I let His light shine and shine and then shine some more, I can fight until the enemy is thoroughly defeated. Jesus died so that I could have a new life, not a life lived in captivity or compromise.

I can’t do this on my own, of course, any more than Joshua could drive out the enemy all by himself or cause the sun to stand still over the Valley of Aijalon. For Joshua—and for me—the only way to achieve victory is through trusting in God. If I supply the motivation, He’ll supply the power to get rid of everything that is displeasing to Him, even when it hurts. Even when I fail and face an uphill battle as I try again.

The cross is much more than a piece of jewelry or a wall decoration. It’s a war memorial like this one at Latrun, reminding us not only of the victory that Christ has won, but of the enormous cost of that victory. I don’t want to surrender any of the territory that Christ died to redeem by returning to my old, sinful ways. Not when the blood that was spilled on the battlefield was His own.

Watchtower

An hour or so outside of Jerusalem, we leave the main highway and drive up a narrow, winding road to a lookout tower with a commanding view of the Judean hill country. The Israelis call this area the
Shephelah,
or foothills, and it’s the place where Samson and King David once roamed. According to John 3:22, “Jesus and his disciples went out into the Judean countryside, where he spent some time with them, and baptized.”

But when we arrive at the top of the lookout hill, we discover that we aren’t alone. A squadron of Israeli soldiers is
using this spot for maneuvers. Army vehicles and equipment fill the parking lot. Their waterproof steel containers hold sophisticated technical gear with telescopes and listening devices and the largest pair of binoculars I have ever seen. Young soldiers in spotless green uniforms have set up these instruments on the ridge and quietly peer off into the distance. They concentrate so intently that they don’t seem at all distracted by our arrival.

We climb the spiral steps to the top of the lookout tower and gaze at the view, enjoying the peaceful scenery and the warm winter sunshine. Even though I am looking in the same direction as the soldiers, their powerful military technology enables them to see much farther into the distance than I can. Someone from our group asks the commander what his soldiers are doing. His curt reply: “Practicing.”

These soldiers are practicing vigilance, and I’m grateful. I have never felt threatened or in danger while visiting Israel because even though the nation is currently at peace, her army remains watchful for any dangers that might disturb that peace. I see the soldiers’ disciplined movements, the sober gazes on their faces, and I know that vigilance is a serious business.

“Watch and pray,” Jesus told His followers, “so that you will not fall into temptation” (Mark 14:38). He wants me to stand guard over my own heart and remain alert for my soul’s enemies, especially those areas where the enemy seems to ambush me again and again. Instead of racing frantically through each day, why not stop as these soldiers have done, and take a broader view of the weeks and months ahead and prayerfully prepare for whatever challenges might be coming down the road? As a confessed worrier, I know that always being on the lookout for danger can make me nervous and
fearful. That’s why I need to heed the advice “Devote yourselves to prayer, being watchful and thankful” (Colossians 4:2). Coupling watchfulness with thankfulness changes my perspective, taking the focus off of the threat and placing it on our living Saviour, who has kept watch over me in the past.

As I observe the young soldiers at this modern watchtower, I also realize that my gaze has been turned inward for much too long. God wants us to watch out for one another, being vigilant in prayer, sounding a warning when we see someone in danger.

It’s a watchman’s duty and his responsibility to warn of approaching danger. In Old Testament times, most cities and towns had fortified walls and towers. The citizens posted watchmen on the walls, instructing them to remain alert day and night. The safety of the community was their responsibility. God appointed the prophet Ezekiel to be a watchman for his people, a task not to be taken lightly. He told him, “When I say to a wicked man, ‘You will surely die,’ and you do not warn him or speak out to dissuade him from his evil ways in order to save his life, that wicked man will die for his sin, and I will hold you accountable for his blood” (Ezekiel 3:18). In the same way, these young soldiers would be held accountable if they saw danger in the distance through their binoculars and shrugged it off.

It sounds harsh to punish the watchman, but this verse from Ezekiel shows us the heart of God. He doesn’t want “anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9). Do I understand the seriousness of my responsibility to warn others of the danger they are in, the deadly enemy stalking them? Do I feel the same sense of urgency and somber responsibility that Ezekiel and these soldiers demonstrate? If
we’re Christ’s followers, we need to have the same heart that He does for the lost. We need to make use of the powerful equipment He has given us, the Holy Spirit, to find ways to warn people of the consequences of rejecting Him.

The apostle Paul told us to “Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be men of courage; be strong.” Then he added, “Do everything in love” (1 Corinthians 16:13–14). And that’s the most important part, I think. It’s not enough for me to warn people of the dangers of a life of sin, but I must do it in a loving way. I want to be able to love sinners—I have to be able to love them—before I condemn their sin. Otherwise, why would they listen to me? Without genuine love I will be perceived as judgmental, a stereotypical, hypocritical Christian, pointing an accusing finger. And my warning will go unheeded.

Perhaps my first prayer should be for a deeper love and compassion for others, a heart like God’s own that looks beyond the outward sin and sees individuals the way that He does. Before I start sounding a warning, I need to earn the right to be heard through acts of love and kindness.

I have some work to do when I get home. These soldiers at the watchtower have reminded me that God cares about people who are in danger with no one to warn them. Our job as the body of Christ is to keep watch, as if an unseen enemy is sneaking up on us. Because one is.

Joppa

We have come to the ancient Israeli seaport of Joppa on the Mediterranean Sea. Ships from all over the region once docked here, bringing exotic cargoes, their sailors babbling a multitude of languages. We have to wind through a maze of
narrow streets to reach the waterfront, but suddenly the sea opens up in front of us, as blue and sparkling as a bowl of sapphires. Gentle waves curl against the shore as if beckoning shyly to us to set sail. I always feel hopeful when I’m near the sea, and also a little restless, longing to travel.

A whimsical statue of a whale reminds us of Joppa’s claim to fame as the port from which the prophet Jonah sailed before being swallowed by a great fish. God called Jonah to preach to the Assyrians in Nineveh but he sailed in the opposite direction—and I don’t blame him. The Assyrians were a brutal, violent people who enjoyed torturing their victims, prolonging death as long as possible. They were Israel’s bitterest enemy, ruthlessly conquering the ten northern tribes and carrying them away into slavery. God wanted Jonah to preach to these vicious, godless pagans? Why not ask a Jew to go to Berlin at the height of Nazi power and preach to Adolf Hitler? Why not ask you and me to go to an Al Qaeda camp and preach the Gospel to Osama bin Laden’s terrorists?

As soon as Jonah heard God’s instructions, he headed here to Joppa to sail as far away from Nineveh as he possibly could. But it wasn’t fear of the Assyrians that made him flee. After the storm nearly capsized Jonah’s ship, after the sailors threw him overboard, and after he spent three days and nights in the belly of the great fish, Jonah confessed the true reason. “I knew you were merciful,” he told God, “slow to anger and abounding in love” (see Jonah 4:2). Jonah’s greatest fear was that God would forgive these enemies—and Jonah didn’t want Him to.