Robert Kolb (PhD, University of Wisconsin) is mission professor of systematic theology emeritus at Concordia Seminary in St. Louis. He is the author or coauthor of numerous books and articles.
Firm footing makes for the secure confidence that human beings need to feel comfortable enough to move freely through life, seeking always to do what we are here to do. We look and long for a solid foundation on which to construct our lives, our identities. Altogether too often the feeling that we are trying to find our balance on shifting sand overcomes us. Shifting sand is composed of granules of the debris ground out of structures for life that we have designed to keep life in order. These structures also evaluate how well we are doing at living a good life, however we may define it. Our self-made designs crumble sooner or later under this pressure into shifting sand.
There are alternatives to our self-designed structures for life and for the evaluation of how well we are doing at living. Society in general and our near ones more specifically impose on us standards for living well in our families, for performing adequately at the job, for performing in the classroom, for being a good neighbor and citizen. These standards strive to exercise mastery over us, goading us to bring our performance up to snuff.
Our experience with these standards often leave us with the feeling that we have not quite fulfilled our own kind of righteousness. Beneath such feelings is the sense that the standards of our Creator demand more. That perception leaves us convinced that weakness is our birthright and failure is our blood type. We would love to show the trophies of our victories, but the mantle stands empty.
Therefore, we often have created walls to defend and protect the battered identity we have forged as sinners. Since the best defense is a good offense, we have too often become offensive, and then we wonder why we are left alone. Even if good fences make good neighbors—and Robert Frost was not so sure—there is something that does not love a wall. Walls block the view and leave us with no one next door to turn to. Our walls shut us up in our bunkers, in our self-made cages.
Human beings were not always this way. Back in our hometown just to the west of where we find ourselves, back in Eden, we were doing alright. But that is not where we are anymore. We set out to find a new place, a new context for life, outside of—to the east of–Eden. We headed through Eden’s gate. It slammed shut behind us, guarded by a fiery sword. The climate changed, and the chill evaporated Eden’s comfortable warmth. We proceeded toward Babel, but Babel was built on shifting sand. The shifting sands east of Eden did not resemble the firm soil of Eden at all.
All the walls we construct east of Eden to shore up life on this side of paradise quiver and quake as our lives hurl us into uncertain futures. We spend life trying to find firm footing again, in vain until Jesus Christ finds us.
The good news is that we can go home again. He has come to fetch us. The good shepherd looks into the crevices behind our walls and calls out for his wandering sheep. His voice rings out with a promise that carries the absolute guarantee of his resurrection. His blood dripping from the cross puts out the fire in the angel’s sword. His blood has gotten smeared on the bill of indictment against us that he nailed to his cross and thus obliterated it (Col. 2:14). Jesus has torn down the walls we built for self-protection. He places himself between us and evil of every kind, especially the Evil One. Stumbling stone by stumbling stone, he deconstructs the way of life that turns us in on ourselves and winds us into ourselves so tight that we do not have a free hand to grasp his hand or any other. He unwinds us out of ourselves and into his way of life, following in his footsteps into the new home he opens up for us around the Father’s supper table. Even before we get to the gate of paradise, we find in this life a firm foundation, a mansion of the Father, built of blood soaked wood and Friday’s nails. We feel the refreshing breeze coming through that gate, revitalizing us for the tasks of today here and now, on the ground that Christ has made firm under our feet.
We already have taken up residence in the mansion he is preparing for us, built on a rock, a rock that is no island—not an I-land at all—but the entire globe filled with the people of God. They are living under his rule, serving and rejoicing in him in everlasting righteousness, innocence, and blessedness. Storms indeed storm around us, and evils of all kinds huff and puff. But they cannot blow God’s house down. It has endured storms throughout human history, and it still stands. Its foundations are firm because they are firmly planted on God’s Word, on its promise of forgiveness of sins, life, and salvation. Neither flood nor fire can touch our haven in the mansion of the Lord. The gales cannot sway the rooms that he has prepared for us. The monsters that made a habit of creeping out of the lower reaches of our old dwellings built on shifting sand have received their eviction notice. The underpinnings of our lives are not inhabited any longer by monsters, for they have been transferred to Christ’s tomb.
Jesus Christ is the stone over which people stumble when they turn their backs on him and flee from his presence. He is the solid rock upon which those firmly stand who trust in him and listen to his voice. For he has carted off the shifting sand of our self-willed ways of life and deposited it in the hellfill of his tomb. He has given us himself as the rock on which we stand, now and forever.