Original Meaning

The Cities of Refuge (20:1–9)

IT IS YAHWEH HIMSELF who raises the issue at hand by giving instructions for Israel through Joshua (vv. 1–6). The Israelites are to implement what he told Moses by setting aside cities of refuge (vv. 1–2). The term “cities of refuge” (ʿarey hammiqlaṭ) links Joshua 20 with the provision of Numbers 35:6 (cf. 1 Chron. 6:42, 52). But canonically, the provision of asylum (“a place I will designate”) first appears in the Book of the Covenant in the context of wrongful deaths (Ex. 21:12–14). Its classic cases include those of Adonijah (1 Kings 1:50–53) and Joab (2:28–34), who find refuge from Solomon’s political revenge at the altar in the tabernacle.5

The ancient custom of blood revenge—retaliation in kind against a killer by the victim’s kin—stands in the background of Joshua 20. In Israel one duty of close male relatives was to avenge such deaths by killing the person thought responsible.6 But a pattern of unrestrained retaliation poses a threat to the continuation of stable social order. Potentially, it may unleash an unending and possibly escalating cycle of tit-for-tat killings (see Lamech’s boast in Gen. 4:23–24). The provision of cities of refuge seeks to break that cycle of blood revenge. It protects someone who has killed a fellow Israelite from the “restorer of blood” (goʾel haddam), a male relative of the victim (e.g., his son, brother, etc.) out to avenge the death.

But verse 3 clarifies that it only applies to accidental and unintentional killings, ones done “by mistake” or “inadvertently” (Num. 35:11–15) and “without [prior] knowledge or forethought” (Deut. 4:42; 19:4). Deuteronomy 19:5–6 offers an illuminating example of what constitutes an accidental killing: when two Israelites are felling trees in a forest and one man’s axhead suddenly flies off, striking and killing his companion. In modern terms, the crime would equate to negligent homicide or manslaughter, not premeditated murder.7

The act of killing nevertheless incurs blood-guilt and legitimates retaliation by the aggrieved family. Thus, Yahweh outlines the procedure to be followed to obviate the latter (vv. 4–6). The text’s phraseology echoes primarily Deuteronomy 19:1–8 but also Numbers 35.8 If the killer desires refuge, he is to flee to the closest city of refuge and must argue his case at the city gate before the elders (v. 4). Since a full trial follows (v. 6), this process amounts to a preliminary hearing to determine whether his case qualifies for asylum—that his actions might have been, in fact, accidental and unintentional.9 Once satisfied, the elders may admit (lit., “gather”) him to the city and provide him a place to live during his long stay.

Poignantly, the Hebrew phrase (lit.) “gather him into the city to themselves” pictures the city and its people as protectively surrounding the asylum seeker. If a blood restorer tracks him there, the city’s leaders may not hand the killer over since his actions seem to have been unintentional and not driven by anger (NIV “without malice aforethought”; v. 5). In other words, the city truly is his refuge against revenge. He may remain there, provided that a trial by a legal assembly in the city verifies his claim.10 Presumably, an unverified claim would lead to his expulsion from the city and eventually land him in the hands of the restorer. If verified, the requirement to remain there rather than go free—in Koopmans’ words, “house arrest in the city of refuge”—probably constitutes just punishment for his life-taking act.11

Curiously, when the current high priest dies, the refugee receives an amnesty that permits his return home. Boling avers that the high priest’s death apparently occasioned a “general amnesty,” while for Nelson this provision reflects common postexilic practice, the high priest assuming the king’s amnesty-granting authority.12 More likely, however, the applicable laws view the high priest’s death as somehow expiating the people’s sins in general and, hence, mark the appropriate occasion to free those living in asylum.13

Dutifully, the Israelites carry out the instructions, setting aside three west-bank cities, all in the hill country (v. 7). The brief list moves from north to south and combines city names with geographical location: Kedesh (in Napthali) will serve northern Israel, Shechem (in Ephraim) the central heartland, and Kirath Arba (i.e., Hebron, in Judah) southern Israel. With the same combination of name and geography (but reading south to north), the Israelites also officially recognize the three east-bank cities authorized by Moses: Bezer serving the southern desert plateau of Reuben, Ramoth in Gilead serving central Transjordan including Gad, and Golan in Bashan serving East Manasseh (v. 8). All six enjoy a geographical distribution that ensures accessibility throughout the land.

Verse 9 reiterates the purpose of the institution—to provide one who has inadvertently taken a life a fair trial (i.e., mercy) rather than to abandon him (unjustly) to blood revenge. As does Numbers 35:15, the instruction extends the merciful protection also to aliens living permanently among the Israelites. This reflects the “inclusive vision” of the book, a vision that reckons aliens as part of Israel’s covenant community (Josh. 8:33, 35) and also grants Rahab and the Gibeonites special status (chs. 2; 9).14

The Cities for the Levites (Joshua 21:1–42)

Bridging Contexts

SOMETHING DOESN’T JIBE. In moving from the ancient text to today, several leftover questions beckon for attention. The first may be the most nagging one, a question probably as troubling to some readers as it has been to many scholars. The problem is that the sweeping, upbeat claims of victory (11:16, 23; 21:43–45) seem to contradict earlier references to unfinished business—unconquered land and peoples (e.g., 13:2–6; 15:63; 16:10; 17:12–18; 23:4, 7, 12–13). As Hawk asks concerning 21:43–45, “What are we to make of commentary that seems to contradict all that we have just read?”34 A related question is, What is the interpretive significance of comments that several tribes have failed to dislodge Canaanite inhabitants from their inheritances (i.e., 15:63; 16:10; 17:12–18; 23:7, 12–13)?

Some readers may well wonder how the book can frankly acknowledge such contrary views, yet still make coherent sense. The appeal by some scholars to the book’s redactional history to explain the conflicts offers no real solution.35 Whatever a biblical book’s prehistory, readers rightly recognize the authority of its so-called “final form”—precisely the place where they confront the problem. In simple terms, they wonder which claim to believe—that God gave Israel the whole land just as he promised, or that his gift was incomplete and his promise only partially fulfilled.

An initial response to the problem is to suggest that the claims of verses 43–45 sound like hyperbole, a device invoked earlier in the book and well attested in ancient writings (cf. my comments at 11:16, 23). If so, a proper reading of them would be to take them as rhetorical flourishes made to celebrate a theme through exaggeration rather than a statement of precise historical claims. Hyperbole in such texts simply forms an expected, typical feature of their genre. In my view, this suggestion greatly relieves, if not eliminates, the sense of sharp contradiction within Joshua.

But other approaches are also possible. Older commentators like John Calvin and Keil and Delitzsch trace the conflict to failure on Israel’s part.36 They argue that God faithfully did his part (the whole-land claims) but that Israel simply reneged on its end (the still-present peoples). This is possible, but in my view, except possibly for 17:17–18, the book seems to report the latter motif matter-of-factly rather than critically. Even in his fervent farewell speech (Josh. 23), Joshua urges Israel simply to avoid intermarriage and to minimize social contacts rather than at last to annihilate the Canaanites completely. In short, the book reports but never critiques Israel for the continuing presence of non-Israelite peoples.

A second approach is to read the supposed conflicting statements as compatible with other themes in the book. Nelson, for example, compares them to the tension between the themes of “God’s fidelity and human obedience (cf. 1:5–9)”—between what God does and what humans do. He says that in 21:43–45 the author simply spotlights God’s “total fidelity to all oaths and promises … and the provision of ‘rest’” and leaves aside other considerations.37 This is no doubt true. Certainly, the point of verses 43–45 is that Yahweh has brought to pass everything the book anticipates earlier (e.g., 1:2–6, 15). Also, these verses literarily anticipate things soon to follow—the dismissal of the east-bank tribes (22:4) and Joshua’s sermonic line about the “good things” Yahweh has done for Israel (23:14–15).38

Along a similar line, Mitchell observes that the portrait of other nations in 13:1–21:42 differs from those in chapters 1–12 and after 21:42.39 In his view, the former chapters present the nations as isolated individuals and groups still to be expelled, whereas the latter (chs. 1–12; post-21:42) portray them as a united force. If so, rather than contradict the reports of continuing alien presence in Joshua 13–19, 21:43–45 affirms that Israel had indeed experienced God’s promised destruction of the nations. The defeated enemies no longer posed the same threat as in chapters 1–12 (a united army), but Israel’s challenge remains to defend themselves and to rid their land of the remaining hostile holdouts.

In my estimation, however, Polzin ultimately suggests the best solution to the issue, one that fits well with the possible presence of hyperbole noted above. He suggests that one read the “inflated claims” of 21:43–45 as ironic, a rhetorical device to promote an ideal, not to claim what is real. Its rhetorical purpose is not to condemn Israel’s disobedience (so Calvin, Keil and Delitzsch) but to uphold the ideal of the “legal limits” of Israel’s God-given land regardless of how real it is.40 This is an important truth for Israel to grasp, because through history the extent of Israel’s territorial holdings varies considerably. Thus, through a clever ironic touch, Joshua upholds the ideal of true Israel—the full sweep of the land of promise—against the vicissitudes facing any given generation.

In conclusion, readers do well to recognize that the book intentionally portrays contrasting realities—the ideal and the real. The use of hyperbole serves to heighten the tension between them in order to speak ironically. The book does commend to readers of every generation an ideal Israel, the Israel that serves God’s cosmic vision for the world. The realities of any given moment may conflict with that ideal, but they neither disprove nor discredit the ideal’s ultimate success by God’s power. At the same time, the book’s ideal-real ironic tension puts the reader on notice that the other peoples present in Canaan potentially pose a dire threat to God’s people (so chs. 22–24). Their presence must be treated seriously not casually. In sum, what seems contradictory in fact serves to convey the book’s realistic worldview, an outlook that Christians share. In the face of contemporary reality, we cling in hope to the ideal that, as hymnwriter Isaac Watts wrote, “Jesus shall reign where’er the sun does his successive journeys run.”

Blood revenge.41 A second matter for follow-up concerns the background of the custom of blood revenge behind chapter 20. At first glance, readers may assume that the desire for simple revenge drives the “restorer of blood” to kill, but that is not the case. Instead, the ancient concept of tribal solidarity—a metaphysical idea that also undergirds biblical teachings on redemption—underlies it.42 Ancient peoples thought of their clan or family collectively—that is, as an integrated, organic whole—not as simply a roster of individuals. Thus, they believed that the entire clan bore the loss suffered by an individual or family within it.

Such losses, as it were, disturbed an underlying sense of tribal wholeness or equilibrium, which required restoration for the tribe to enjoy well-being. The losses included financial setbacks (e.g., property mortgaged outside the clan, members in debt slavery) and blood lost to violence (the situation in Josh. 21). By avenging the killing of a relative, the restorer (lit., “redeemer”) of blood redeems the blood of the deceased and restores the family’s sense of equilibrium, wholeness, and well-being. As noted above, however, the blood revenge principle might produce an endless (and fruitless) blood feud between clans. Indeed, Lamech’s boast illustrates (Gen. 4:23–24) that it might actually escalate the violence. If a family believes that the greatness of its lost kin requires more than one killing to offset its loss, it might carry out multiple killings to do so.

The provision of cities of refuge aims to restrict by law the reach of that ancient institution. It seeks to limit the practice to actual murders—premeditated acts whose just punishment may come at the hands of the restorer of blood. Theologically, such restrictions also accommodate the practice to the biblical idea that God holds absolute sway over all life, human and animal, and over the blood that embodies life.43 By limiting the institution, God the Creator exercises his ownership over all life and his absolute right to regulate it. In my view, this marks an act of divine grace on behalf of people I would regard as the victims of circumstances beyond their control. It extends divine mercy toward people accidentally caught in unfortunate, life-threatening situations.

It may surprise some readers, but through many provisions of Old Testament law God often interposes his grace and mercy into situations of undeserved hardship. For example, the law graciously protects a daughter whose father, out of financial necessity, must sell her as a wife-slave (Ex. 21:7–11). The law protects her rights to food, clothing, and sexual relations, and to redemption under certain circumstances. It defines how her husband may or may not get rid of her should she no longer please him. The instruction may fall way short of modern sensibilities, but, read in its original context, the case of a wife-slave reveals divine grace at work.44 In short, through such provisions God grants us a glimpse of his merciful side and models a character trait for us to emulate.

What about those Levites? A third leftover matter concerns the identity of the Levites in chapter 21. Scholars have long discussed the history and changing functions of the Levites during Israel’s history, a discussion that need not detain us here.45 But two points—one historical, the other terminological—need to be made at the outset. (1) Historically, the uniqueness of the Levites goes back to their special role in the redemption of all Israelite firstborn.46 Yahweh owns all firstborn, including humans and animals, but in the wilderness he accepted the tribe of Levi in their place to redeem them (Num. 3:49, 51; cf. 8:15–18). This generous act of redemption forever allows all Israelite firstborn sons to remain with their families and sets apart the tribe of Levi to serve Yahweh’s wishes. That is why the descendants of Levi—the priestly Aaronides and the other groups of Levites—figure so prominently in the Bible, including Joshua 21.47

(2) (a) As for terminology, in the Bible the word “Levite” designates the tribe whom Yahweh redeemed, the descendants of Jacob’s son, Levi, with its three clans (Gershon, Kohath, and Merari). This is the tribe from which Israel’s priests came. Statements in Joshua that the “Levites” received no inheritance (14:3, 4; 18:7) invoke the tribal meaning noted above. “Levites” (members of the tribe of Levi) petition and receive towns and pasturelands throughout Israel (Josh. 21), their base of financial support in lieu of land inheritances (13:14, 33; 14:3–4; 18:7; ch. 21; cf. 1 Chron. 6; Deut. 18:1–5).

(b) “Levite” also denotes a person who, though still a priest, may serve a variety of functions, some temple-related and some not. In Jerusalem, the “Levites” made up three classes of temple personnel, each of whom served what seemed to be a long-established, distinct organizational function. Descended from Levi’s firstborn son, the Gershonites comprised the altar priests, whereas the (second-born) Kohathites served as temple singers. The third group, the gatekeepers, descended both from Korah, son of Kohath’s second son, Izhar (1 Chron. 9:19) and from Merari (9:14; 26:19). They monitored the sacred entrances and managed the temple’s side chambers. They also administered its treasuries, collected yearly taxes, assessed special fees, and dispersed funds per the state’s wishes (2 Chron. 24:6; 34:9–10). They assisted the sons of Aaron with items required for worship—furniture, utensils, and consumables like flour, wine, oil, incense, and spices (1 Chron. 9:26–32; 23:24–29). The singers provided vocal and instrumental accompaniment to services of sacrifice (1 Chron. 23:30–31; 2 Chron. 29:27–28).48 Levites also served appointments as officers and judges, duties they carried out on visits throughout the land (1 Chron. 23:4; 26:29; 2 Chron. 19:8).

But what about the “Levites” who settled in the towns throughout Israel to which Joshua 21 assigns them? Since they had neither ark to carry nor temple tasks to tend, why did God disperse them around Israel? The Bible provides no systematic summary of their duties, but a mosaic of texts sketches a fairly clear picture of their work. Presumably, they performed some of the same functions as their counterparts in Jerusalem. As “officials,” some probably had charge of conscripting soldiers and laborers for royal missions as well as the collection of taxes and tithes (1 Chron. 26:23–30; cf. 2 Chron. 24:1–11; Neh. 10:37). As “judges,” some probably rendered legal decisions, a duty consistent with their role as legal “scribes” in Jerusalem (2 Chron. 19:4–11; 34:13; 35:3; cf. Deut. 17:8–13).

Further, the Levites applied their knowledge of the Instruction of Moses by teaching it to Israelites in their local towns (1 Chron. 13:2; 2 Chron. 11:13; 35:3; Mal. 2:6–9; cf. 2 Chron. 17:9). They performed the same instructional function as they did on the dramatic day when Ezra read the “Book of the Law [Instruction] of God” to the returned exiles in Jerusalem (Neh. 8). During Ezra’s dramatic reading, the Levites fanned out through the crowd to interpret what it meant—that is, to make sure that the people fully understood it (Neh. 8:8).

In short, with their towns as home bases, the Levites served as Yahweh’s local representatives throughout the land. In Howard’s words, “the Levites were to be ‘salt and light’ among their fellow Israelites, scattered as they were throughout the tribes.”49 As it were, they gave the invisible Yahweh a local incarnational presence—a flesh-and-blood person with whom to deal—in the towns and villages where people lived. As part of the tribe set aside for his service, they symbolically constituted the people closest to him, the ones who presumably knew him best, the ones who understood his mysterious ways, the ones to consult with in order to make wise decisions. Through their instruction, Yahweh addressed local Israelites in his own words, challenging and calming them in his own voice.

The Levites’ judicial decisions maintained the social harmony—the šalom—of the local community so it might function amicably, if not actually flourish. Their more formal religious functions also mediated between God and his people, maintaining the precious, long-standing covenant connection between them. Their local presence among the tribes could serve to deter the construction of non-Yahwistic shrines or the development of syncretistic beliefs. Further, their civic duties linked local communities both with neighboring ones and with Israel’s political and religious nerve center, Jerusalem. Finally, headquartered at Jerusalem and scattered throughout the land, the Levites symbolized the unity of Israel under Yahweh’s lordship.50 In my view, they anticipate something of the role that we as God’s dispersed people may play in our own cities and towns.

A final word about “rest.” The Old Testament understands “rest” as the gracious gift of God to his people.51 Against the background of a long journey and intense warfare (so ch. 21), it connotes a sense of relief from frightening threats, of safe, happy arrival, of realizing long-held dreams, of coming into unexpected wealth, of finally being “home.” That is what Yahweh’s faithfulness in settling Israel in its Promised Land means to Israel. But, rather than inactivity, “rest” also opens the door to unhindered creative activity—to making towns livable, to earning a livelihood, to raising a family, to savoring the good life.

A part of Israel’s “rest” is its duty properly to maintain its relationship with the God of Israel. They connect to him at his own “resting place,” the place where he himself settled in Canaan—the temple in Jerusalem (2 Sam. 7:1, 11; 1 Kings 5:3–5; 8:56; Ps. 132:14; 2 Chron. 6:41). Solomon’s prayer of dedication (1 Kings 8) highlights the significance of Yahweh’s “resting place” for each Israelite. To be near the temple, Yahweh’s home, offers Israelites the spot of maximum intimacy with him. His eyes perpetually keep it in view, so it marks the one place on earth where one may surface on God’s radar screen (8:29). Wherever an Israelite might be, to “pray toward this place” and confess sin would always secure a hearing and forgiveness (8:30). This is true after national defeats (8:33–34), droughts (8:35–36), and famines (8:37–39).

At the same time, Psalm 95 warns Israel not to squander their promised “rest.” It recalls a famous episode when newly freed Israel, en route to Mount Sinai, loudly griped at Yahweh for providing no water (Ex. 17:1–7). Their thirst, they complained, proved Yahweh’s absence from them. But God surprised them, producing water from an invisible source, from behind a desert rock. Over the centuries, Israel remembered the incident as a paradigm of faithlessness (see Deut. 6:16; 9:22; 33:8; Ps. 95:8). To hear the names of the site—Meribah (“quarreling”) and Massah (“testing”; Ex. 17:7; Ps. 95:8)—evoked shame and sadness. The names recall the place where their ancestors, shamefully shortsighted and self-centered, made God angry, angry enough to decree, “They shall never enter my rest” (Ps. 95:11). The psalmist recalls the event to show how to avoid losing “my rest,” the rest whose only source is Yahweh himself: “Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts” as Israel did that day (95:7b–8). To enjoy and keep the “rest” requires a soft heart—an eager, responsive, willingness to obey the Lord’s voice whenever he calls.

Contemporary Significance

Contemporary Significance

THE ISRAELITE INSTITUTIONS OF cities of refuge and Levitical towns seem a million miles from us. Today court-issued restraining orders and protective police custody eliminate the need for anyone in danger to flee to another town for safety. And most towns have more than one church where—or, so it seems—good teaching goes on all the time. What meaning, then, might Joshua 20–21 have for Christians living today?

In reply, three preliminary points merit mention. (1) Remember that both Israelite institutions are practices of the whole community, not just isolated individuals. Granted, an individual killer must hurry to the nearest official city of refuge to secure safety, and that city must agree to play its role. But the system works only because Israelite society as a whole embraces it.

(2) Understand that the foundations on which these institutions rest are several fundamental Israelite values, values not subject to question or debate. The reason such debate is out of bounds is, first, that Israelites accept those values as “givens,” and, second, that those values are anchored in the very nature of God himself. Put differently, both practices put on public display the character of God. We can view them as ancient billboards advertising on God’s behalf. They broadcast the character of the Israelite community—how Yahweh has shaped them—so the institutions mirror (or should mirror) his character.

(3) Finally, since the two institutions of cities of refuge and Levitical towns concern the whole community, their meaning today also will concern the whole Christian community, the church. Now, granted, that meaning directly relates to the attitudes and conduct of individual church members, but the proper application of a text about community must address the church, God’s community of people today. As we will see, the key themes from Joshua 20–21 with contemporary meaning are the idea of refuge, representation, and rest.

The church: mercy and generosity. Two values that underlie both the cities of refuge and the Levitical towns are mercy and generosity. These also comprise two divine traits that God desires to cultivate in his people. To appreciate mercy, imagine yourself as the Israelite whose axhead had escaped its handle in mid-swing and killed his friend (Deut. 19:5). Instantly, you have become a killer—your hands tainted with blood, your soul black with guilt, your tidy life suddenly in tatters. The terrible damage has been done, and you face its terrible consequences. You stare at your bleeding, lifeless neighbor, and swirling panic yanks you back and forth. Your own grief pushes you toward him as if a simple hug will bring him back to life, but simultaneously a terrible dread pushes you to make a quick getaway. Instead, you calmly lift your friend over your shoulders and slowly walk toward town.

As you walk, you accept that there is no use in explaining, “It was an accident! I’m so, so sorry! I checked the tightness of the axhead but it just flew off as I chopped.” You imagine how the news will devastate the dead man’s family. You picture yourself facing his widow and children, your tearful apology and plea for forgiveness drowned out by the surging waves of their grief. You picture a shrouded body clutched by wailing women whose sorrow drives an erratic rocking motion. You imagine the mystical sense of loss—the ugly tear in the family psyche—and the quiet outrage and urge for justice building among the man’s male relatives. You can expect revenge—family duty demands it. You curse God for letting it happen, but no reply comes. Inside boils a sinister stew of conflicting emotions—shame, guilt, self-doubt, dread, and above all, a desire to flee.

It is the kind of feeling that grips us when we, to use a current phrase, “screw up” badly in a way that affects someone else. I still remember the feelings that followed one of my screw-ups when I was only fifteen. My family was attending a denominational convention and staying in our travel trailer at a trailer park. That morning, Dad had left for the meetings and the rest of us were to do some sightseeing before meeting him that afternoon. I was a typical, hormone-driven male teenager, always itching to drive our pink ′65 Rambler though I had no license to do so. In recent years Dad had ignored legal niceties and given my hormones a small outlet, at first, letting me start the car and rev it up in the driveway, then later letting me back it out and park it by the curb.52

So, on that bright summer morning in Colorado, I grabbed Mom’s keys and executed my usual start-and-back-out routine. I turned the wheel to the right, looked over my right shoulder for oncoming vehicles, and briskly backed into the street. Wham! Ignoring the front end’s swing to the left, I slammed into the front tongue of the mobile home next door. The collision left an ugly gash in the Rambler’s left front fender and unnerved the neighbor inside. I dreaded having to tell my Dad, but to my surprise he showed me mercy. He even recalled the time in his youth when he had also scratched his father’s car. Later, he paid the neighbor $75 to fix the damages I had done.

The Old Testament cities of refuge offered mercy for unfortunate Israelites. In my view, one aspect of their contemporary meaning is to challenge churches today to be “churches of refuge.” By that I mean that they should be places to which people may flee from their misfortunes or screw-ups to find mercy. Mercy means, among other things, “a refraining from harming or punishing offenders, enemies, persons in one’s power, etc.; kindness in excess of what may be expected or demanded by fairness.”53

The word describes both what we do not do (i.e., get back at those who have wronged us or abuse those under our control) and what we do (show an unexpected level of kindness). Unfortunately, the world we live in too often runs short of mercy. It is too willing to seek revenge, too eager to lower the boom, too ready to get its pound of flesh. Victims of bossiness by others relish the chance to throw their own weight around when their underlings fail. The world thrives on competition between people, whether in the workplace or the playing field. In such a “game,” someone’s screw-up cedes a competitive edge to others eager to have it as they claw their way up the ladder of success. It is a game of “the survival of the fittest”—or the slyest, or the cleverest, or the luckiest, or the most conniving. People who fail often can expect to receive no mercy, not even from their family. Instead, the one foul-up is held against them and thrown in their face at every future misstep. Without mercy, the person is forever condemned to drag around the shame of that one mistake as a prisoner does a ball and chain.

What traits typify a “church of refuge”? (1) Its primary concern is with today and tomorrow, not yesterday. When people approach its front door, they sense they are entering a nonthreatening, safe place. They sense a place where their past will never get in the way of relationships or come back to haunt them. It is as if there is a sign posted outside saying, “Your past—good or bad—doesn’t matter here. Welcome!” Once inside, the prime concern is, “How are you—the real you—doing today? What are your hopes and dreams—and how can we help?” Whether talk of the past is important is left up to the individual. He or she is free to bring it up if doing so meets a need.

(2) A safe church keeps its rules on file for emergencies rather than impose them every time they apply. It is a place where, in the words of James 2:13, “Mercy triumphs over judgment!” Yes, churches have rules—biblical standards of conduct and expectations—but refuge churches apply them only when necessary, and then gently and sorrowfully. They let people be who they are—warts and all!—and leave the transformation business to God. He is a lot better at it than they are, anyway.

(3) A safe church grows members well aware of their own warts. Its rank structure is—well, it has none. People may serve different organizational functions within it, but they enjoy the same status: They are all forgiven sinners, nothing more, nothing less.

(4) Finally, a safe church gives people the God-treatment. It treats people the same way God has treated them—with mercy and compassion. It works hard to live out Jesus’ teaching that among his people the “greatest” is the “slave” who serves everyone else first (Matt. 20:26; Mark 10:4; Luke 22:26).

But our churches should also be known for their generosity. Their reputation should be as places that give failure-prone people both breaks (mercy) and tangible helps (generosity). Here the interpretive key comes in two especially timely uses of the word “to give” (natan) in Joshua 20–21. In Joshua 20:2, Yahweh orders Joshua to tell the Israelites “to designate the cities of refuge” (NIV; cf. v. 8). Actually, instead of the infinitive (NIV), the Hebrew literally quotes what Joshua is to say: “Give for yourselves [tenu lakem] the cities of refuge” (i.e., a plural imperative). In short, the Israelites are to “give” the cities “to themselves”—as it were, as a kind of present.

Similarly, in 21:2 the Levites remind Joshua that Yahweh had commanded Moses (lit.) “to give to us [natan lanu] towns to live in.” They request the gift that Yahweh had long ago provided them, and the Israelites “give” (natan) it “out of their own inheritance” (v. 3; cf. vv. 8, 9, 11, 12, 13, 21). Now, understand that each gift carries a price tag. To serve as a city of refuge commits a town to certain responsibilities. It has to maintain its outer walls and gates in secure condition. Its leaders must be ready to hold trials on short notice and must make sure they know what they are doing. Its citizens have to set aside lodging for asylum-seekers, to integrate them into town life, and not to treat them as intruders or suspects. In short, it commits a town to sacrifice its own wishes in order to serve the common good.

To serve as a city of refuge demands that towns make available the life-sparing gift of refuge to people who need it, including their own citizens who may be involved in a killing. Similarly, Israelites who give up their towns to the Levites pay an even higher price. They have to surrender town ownership to the Levites. They also either have to move over—to leave space for their new Levite neighbors—or to move on—to find another place to live. Again, they have to sacrifice their own preferences—remember, Caleb gave up Hebron!—to serve Israel’s common good. In short, they “give” so Israel might “receive” the benefits of refuge and local access to Levitical expertise. But all that Israel had, it had received from Yahweh’s generosity. So the demands for towns of refuge and towns for Levites both provide Israel an opportunity to tell him, “Thanks for all you’ve done.”

Recall one of Jesus’ final instructions as he sent his disciples out on their first solo ministry tours: “Freely [i.e., without cost] you have received, freely give” (Matt. 10:8). Jesus tells his followers to follow God’s example with what they have: “You’ve received everything free of charge, so give it away free of charge.” That they have received everything they have from God implies that it does not really belong to them; they are merely its managers on God’s behalf. It also means that the world, not they, is its intended final destination; they are simply the means to get it there.

In today’s world so bent on accumulating more and keeping what it gets, Jesus charges his church with the same generosity it has received from God. He asks the church, his family, to join the family business, Giveaway, Inc., Father and Son, Proprietors. My observation is that church budgets typically tend to serve internal needs for the most part—staff salaries, building upkeep, Sunday school supplies, youth group activities, and the like. Jesus’ call, however, asks churches to budget significantly for external needs—for mission to the world around it. John 3:16 says that “God so loved the world”—not just the church—“that he gave his one and only Son” to save it. That model of generosity calls for generous churches, ones ready to pay any price and bear any burden to reach the world.

A letter in the recent novel Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson, illustrates this priority. In it, a Methodist minister, retired after decades of ministry in small, rural Midwestern towns, writes to his son in the late 1940s. The letter recounts the lives of his father and grandfather (i.e., the son’s grand-and great-grandfather). In one striking paragraph the letter writer recalls a kind of “holy poverty” that typified his grandfather:

My grandfather never kept anything that was worth giving away, or let us keep it, either, so my mother said. He would take the laundry right off the line. She said he was worse than any thief, worse than a house fire. She said she could probably go to any town in the Middle West and see some pair of pants she’d patched walking by in the street. I believe he was a saint of some kind. When someone remarked in his hearing that he had lost an eye in the Civil War, he said, “I prefer to remember that I have kept one.” My mother said it was good to know there was anything he could keep.…

When he left us, we all felt his absence bitterly. But he did make things difficult. It was an innocence in him. He lacked patience for anything but the plainest interpretation of the starkest commandments, “To him who asks, give,” in particular.54

The church: a safe place. The Old Testament cities of refuge offer places where someone whose negligence or bad luck had ended a life could find safety. No doubt, to arrive there required a nerve-wracking, draining, and at times even harrowing ordeal. The fear of being found by the restorer of blood would be unrelenting. Imagine making a journey on high alert round-the-clock, with ceaseless surveillance in all directions, to spot and elude the pursuer. Imagine days without sleep, first, because to stop would let the pursuer gain ground, and, second, because sleep would be too fitful to be truly restful.

Picture the joy of spotting the city of refuge on the horizon for the first time, the sheer relief of finally reaching its gates, and the physical and emotional collapse that would follow admission. Feel your gratitude for those huge city walls, for the simple joy of being around people rather than alone, for tokens of hospitality received, for the new friendships made. Consider the restless wait for your trial to begin and conclude—and the thrill of a favorable verdict. Imagine the ecstasy of finally feeling “safe.” This is the experience of those who found refuge in the cities of refuge.

Joshua 20 displays the heart of a kind and merciful God who desires to provide safe places for disenfranchised people. He has designed the church to provide such a safe place. By that I mean, they should be places where people—the weary and worn, the bruised and broken, the unlovely and unloved—can find refuge. A refuge is a place of protection, a place that keeps out threats, a place where enemies cannot intrude, a place where people feel secure. That security frees them to relax worry-free, to drop their guard, to be at ease, even to feel at home. It also frees them to open up and reach out for relationships with others who have likewise found refuge.

Phrases from the theme song of the classic television show Cheers capture the essence of a safe church. It offers people exhausted from navigating today’s world a “break from all [their] worries,” somewhere to go to “get away.” It is also a place where “everybody knows your name”—not your title, your position, your resumé, or your past. It marks a place where friends John, Joan, and Justin meet to enjoy being together. It is a place where strangers stop being strangers—where the friendly, trusting exchange of names with other strangers forges personal connections. It is a place where people are “always glad you came”—where everybody is genuinely glad to see you. It is an especially encouraging place because honest conversations happen. They reveal that “our troubles are all the same,” so no one need feel alone, ashamed, or fatally singled out for doom.

A church that is a safe place is a welcoming place. Joshua 20 says that an arriving refugee is not left to sleep in the street but is provided a place to live (and presumably access to food, too). He is welcomed, given a “place” in the society, and incorporated in the community. The ill-fated journey of the Levite and his concubine in Judges 19 gives us a glimpse of what the welcoming I have in mind looks like. Picture them as someone who shows up unannounced at your church some Sunday morning. The couple and their servant start out in Bethlehem and head north toward their home in the hill country of Ephraim. (Theirs is a long journey that requires stops for rest en route.) As night begins to fall, they bypass an overnight in Jebus (Jerusalem)—a non-Israelite city—and press on to lodge with fellow Israelites at Gibeah a few miles north. (They are seeking other people like them, people with whom they can connect.) Ironically, “their own kind” gives the weary travelers the cold shoulder. They sit down in the town square in plain view, but no one invites them home for a meal and a night’s rest. (Alas, I recall once visiting a church in which I entered, worshiped, and exited without one person speaking to me or even shaking my hand. I fear that this happens all too often, even when visitors pay a church return visits.)

But an Ephraimite man living in Benjamite Gibeah notices that they are strangers and talks with them. (Visitors often link up with other newcomers because that is easier than breaking into existing groups. A safe church plans to make that happen rather than leave it totally to chance.) The strangers introduce themselves and report that they have everything they need. (Visitors enjoy being friendly but, as guests, do not yet feel free to share the depths of their needs.) The man, however, welcomes them into his home, meets their needs, and feeds them. They spend an enjoyable evening together, perhaps reminiscing about Ephraim, but at least truly connecting. (May God grant every church a few such genuinely hospitable people!) Alas, a horrible, violent series of tragic and shameless events ensues—they earn an “X” rating from me—that end in tragedy for the visitors and shame for Gibeah. (As outsiders, newcomers may suddenly find themselves drawn into ongoing internal conflicts, even enlisted to support one side.)

Nevertheless, Judges 19 suggests several traits of the welcoming church. Such a church understands that visitors are people on a long, demanding journey—sometimes fleeing dangers and past hurts. The journey is their life, and it requires frequent rest stops and the companionship of other travelers to get through it. That is why they show up at church: They are looking for renewal and friendship for the trip. They want genuine hospitality—a warm welcome, sincere interest in who they are, and some new connections with which, in time, to do in-depth sharing. The unwelcoming church will ignore them, retreat behind closed doors, treat them as outsiders (read: “intruders”!), or abuse them by enlisting their support in internal squabbles. It will not offer them refuge; it will leave them to the thugs and avengers prowling the world outside. It will break the heart of God.

The church: scattered on purpose. Thus far, my discussion has been about the refuge needy people should find in the church. It concerns what some theologians call God’s “gathered people”—the body of Christ assembled for worship. Now, however, the institution of Levitical cities (ch. 21) illumines our understanding about God’s “scattered people”—the body of Christ spread throughout the community throughout the week.

To begin, let me pose these questions: Why is it that Christians do not live together in the same neighborhood or apartment building? Why is it that, when someone decides to follow Christ, they still live in the same place and hold the same job? My answer is that God wants them to be Levites in their local community. God wanted the Levites living all over the land rather than in Jerusalem because he had special things for them to do for the scattered Israelites. Similarly, God wants Christians spread around because he has important things for them to do. As Levites in their neighborhoods, they serve God by serving their local communities on his behalf. What do they bring there?

(1) They know God personally. They are, in fact, adopted members of God’s own family, with all the requisite rights and privileges. They have an “in” with him—high-level, heavenly connections, indeed! Not everyone would dare call him “Daddy” (see Rom. 8:15; Gal. 4:6; cf. Mark 14:36), but they do regularly, and without embarrassment. As family, they enjoy ongoing conversation with him on a daily basis. He is their Father, after all, so they tell him what is going on in their lives: their day-to-day activities, great things they did, weighty things on their minds, heavy burdens on their hearts, decisions about which they need his advice, problems with which they need his help.

But the conversation is truly two-way, so they listen as he speaks to them, too. Sometimes, he speaks to them in writing—what the whole family calls “his Word.” Other times, they hear his voice speaking inside them—what the family calls “his Spirit.” Unfortunately, sometimes they get too busy or preoccupied to read his writing or to hear his voice in the moment. But they maintain a conversation nonetheless.

I hasten to underscore how unusual this is. Most people have some ideas about God, but not everyone would claim to know him personally. Many people report that they talk to God and hope he hears them, but they are not always sure. Certainly, they are curious about him—and not a little frightened, I might add. Their problem is how to get to know him better. That is one reason why God has scattered us, his Levites, around. He wants us available so that, when he comes up in conversation, we can speak about him from personal experience. Also, the Levites’ family connection with God also means that they talk about him as they would any other family member. They are part of his family, after all, and that is what kids often do when they are around other people: They talk about their Daddy. Those comments also help people to come to know God personally. As we know from life in general, to get things done it never hurts to know someone who knows someone.

(2) Christian Levites bring knowledge about God to their neighborhoods. When my wife and I travel to a new place, one of the first places we visit is the Visitor Information Center. Most towns that attract regular visitors have them, and they offer crucial information—like where the nearest restrooms are! One time we wanted to rent bicycles for an afternoon, and the local office told us where to do so. Another time, we wanted to attend a local theater performance, and they helped us get tickets.

Now, Levites today are God’s Visitor Information Center. There are a lot of rumors and opinions floating around about God, but not much knowledge about what he thinks. That is the information gap the Levites help to fill. Through “his Word,” they have access to the best information. Whether sharing informally or teaching formally, today’s Levites are the people from whom people outside the family can get information about the Father and his Son, Jesus. They are the people to consult with about God and to get answers to questions about him. Now, not every Levite feels they know enough to do so effectively. Few Levites can answer every question. But however long someone may have been a Christian Levite, he or she at least knows a little more than the questioner. And they have access to “his Word,” too.

(3) Finally, they know how to contact God on behalf of others. The Levites were experts in Israel’s religious practices—its prayers, hymns, sacrifices, and holy days. The same is true of Christian Levites. Earlier in this book I mentioned my past service as a Navy chaplain. Wherever I served, at the end of a conversation in which I sensed it appropriate, I would ask the person if they wanted me to pray for them. I still follow that practice, and no one has ever turned me down. Whatever their religious connection (or lack of it), people highly value prayer. They understand it as a way to get in touch with God, they respect someone who practices it, and they are grateful to be prayed for.

One thing a Levite can do for a neighborhood is to be available to pray for others or, at least, to assure them of ongoing prayers. In my view, an openness to pray is an attractive, inoffensive way to bring Jesus into the lives of neighborhood people. It is a simple but tangible way to be “salt and light”—to testify that Jesus is alive and at work right now. In my view, that is another reason why God scatters his people throughout communities. He wants people available to pray to the Father on behalf of needy people outside the family.

It is at this point, however, that I sense that the church itself may pose a threat to the work of the Levites. In a recent book, church leader Reggie McNeal insightfully argues that recent technological and cultural changes have rendered “church culture” (the way most churches operate) less relevant to the culture at large than it was a generation ago.55 In church culture, for example, an outreach strategy typically asks, “How do we get people to come to our church?” But, according to McNeal, that approach simply no longer works because church culture no longer interests non-church people.

Part of the problem, says McNeal, is that most evangelical churches resemble exclusive clubs. They sponsor all kinds of age-and interest-group activities for members (notice that pregnant word!), and their leaders are preoccupied with keeping the club going efficiently. Club dues (read: “offerings”) mainly go to support club ventures rather than, say, endeavors in the larger community. There is a clubby reluctance to give God’s money away to people outside the church. Creative attempts to increase club membership most often involve some new club activity or event to draw outsiders into the church building. Instead, McNeal proposes that today churches must find ways to go out to where the people are: “Churches that understand the realities of the present future are shifting the target of ministry efforts from church activity to community transformation.”56

To earn a hearing for the gospel, he suggests, churches need to make it a priority to invest their resources in ways that benefit the community at large, not just the church itself. In Jesus’ words, their identity is to “serve” rather than to “be served” (Matt. 20:28; Mark 10:45). Rather than being huddled comfortably in cozy clubs, churches need to be “out there” where people are: “We need a church in every mall, every Wal-Mart supercenter, every Barnes and Noble.”57 According to McNeal, practical service in making the community a better place for everyone—that is, community transformation—must be the church’s first priority. After all, ultimately God wants communities to thrive and to be places where his blessings flourish for everyone’s benefit.

And when people ask why Christians are doing this—the change will truly get the culture’s attention!—McNeal suggests the answer that Pastor Cho in South Korea teaches his people to give: “I am a disciple of Jesus. I am serving him by serving you, because that’s what he came to do.”58 Now, McNeal’s criticism of church culture is painful to hear and his vision for the church is indeed radical. But in my view, his conviction that evangelical churches need to reorient themselves from inward to outward is correct. In my terms, churches need to act more like the Levites!

Centennial, a novel by James Michener, has an intriguing scene set in Mexico during the early days of the Mexican revolution. Its purpose is to explain the dire circumstances that drove some Mexicans to immigrate to Colorado to find work. Poverty in Mexico, the novel recounts, left the poor no choice but to work in the silver mines owned by the ruthless, wealthy General Terrazas. In the scene in question, the local parish priest, Father Grávez, was pressuring a young man with the derogatory name “Capitan” Frijoles (“Beans”) not to agitate for better working conditions. The priest told him:

“God gives each of us our work to do, Capitan, and your work is to bring silver out of the earth. God watches what you do. He knows your excellence and one day He will reward you. Also, General Terrazas needs the silver for the good works he does in Chihuahua.”

Michener’s narrative continues:

This line of reasoning impressed Frijoles at the moment, but later when he tried to recall one good thing General Terrazas had ever done for the people of Chihuahua, he could think of nothing. The general spent his money on big houses and bigger ranches and automobiles for his many children and trips to Europe and the entertainment of European businessmen and the paying of bribes to politicians in Mexico City. “Perhaps,” Frijoles told his fellow workers, “when he’s finished with all that, one of these days he’ll get around to us.” The miners suspected, from past experience, that this might take a long time.59

Similarly, the world is waiting for the church to abandon its holy huddle as a club, spending its resources on its own agendas, and to “get around to us.” It needs to recover its identity and mission as God’s “scattered (not huddled) people.” As Christians, we need to see ourselves not as members of a religious club but as Levites, people dispersed to serve sacrificially and lovingly wherever God places us. Our motto is: “I am a Levite whom Jesus has placed in my neighborhood. I serve my Lord by serving my community in his name. That is what he has commanded me to do.” Such obedient service will entitle us to the “Sabbath rest” for our labors when Jesus returns (Heb. 4:9, 11).