Feasts of Homecoming: From Gilgal to the Father’s Table

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<p>The Lord said to Joshua, “Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt.” And so that place is called Gilgal to this day. While the Israelites were camped in Gilgal they kept the Passover in the evening on the fourteenth day of the month in the plains of Jericho. On the day after the Passover, on that very day, they ate the produce of the land, unleavened cakes and parched grain. The manna ceased on the day they ate the produce of the land, and the Israelites no longer had manna; they ate the crops of the land of Canaan that year [Joshua 5:9–12].</p>
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<p>This Sunday, the Fourth Sunday in Lent (RCL, Year C), our appointed Old Testament reading, Joshua 5:9-12, presents us with a brief but pivotal moment in Israel’s journey. After forty years of wilderness wandering, the Israelites have crossed the Jordan River and entered the land promised to their ancestors. The journey has been long, and the generation that left Egypt, including Moses, has passed away. Now, standing on the soil of Canaan, they pause before the challenges of conquest begin.</p>

<p>This week’s pericope from Joshua 5 is nestled between the circumcision of the new generation and Joshua’s mysterious encounter with a divine messenger before the battle of Jericho. Though it might seem like a simple transitional note, within these few verses we find a profound moment of transformation—one that resonates with the Gospel reading for Sunday, the parable of the Prodigal Son [Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32]. Both texts invite us to consider the nature of homecoming, provision, and the meals that mark our journey of faith.</p>

<h2>Leaving the Wilderness Behind</h2>

<p>After crossing the Jordan, the Israelites experienced a significant change in their daily lives—the manna ceased. For forty years, this miraculous food had sustained them, appearing each morning with the dew. No one had to plant or harvest; they simply gathered what they needed for the day. Now, abruptly, it was gone.</p>

<p>The text states it matter-of-factly: “The manna ceased on the day they ate the produce of the land.” One provision ends as another begins. The supernatural gives way to the natural, though both remain God’s gifts. There must have been both relief and uncertainty in this moment. No more complaints about the monotony of their diet, as voiced in Numbers 11:5–6, recalling “the fish we used to eat in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic.” Now they would taste the fruits of Canaan—but now they would also need to work the land, plant the crops, and wait for harvest.</p>

<p>What wilderness provisions do we cling to, even as God invites us into new territory? What forms of sustenance—spiritual practices, relationships, vocations—have served their purpose but now need to be released so that we can taste the produce of a new land?</p>

<p>This shift—from wilderness provision to grounded abundance—echoes in the parable of the Prodigal Son. The younger son moves from feeding on pods meant for pigs—the barest form of survival in his self-imposed exile—to the abundance of his father’s table. His wilderness was of his own making, but his return required leaving behind both the degradation of the far country and the identity he had constructed there.</p>

<h2>Rolling Away Disgrace</h2>

<p>Before this meal, God speaks a word of transformation to Joshua. As pointed out by Robert Alter in his wonderfully crafted OT translation, <em>The Hebrew Bible</em>, the Hebrew word <em>gallothi</em> (“I have rolled away”) becomes the basis for naming the place Gilgal—a perpetual geographic reminder of this moment of liberation. The disgrace of Egypt—their slavery, their subjugation, perhaps even the mockery they endured during their wilderness wanderings—has been removed.</p>

<p>This declaration follows the circumcision of all the males born during the wilderness years. None had received this mark of covenant identity during the forty-year journey. Now, before they could celebrate Passover in the land, they needed to bear in their bodies the sign of belonging to God’s people.</p>

<p>Where do we still carry the marks of our past captivities? What shame or disgrace do we bear that God has already declared “rolled away”? How might our understanding of identity shift if we truly believed that our past no longer defines us?</p>

<p>The father in Jesus’ parable enacts a similar transformation. Before the son can even deliver his rehearsed speech of contrition, the father calls for the best robe, a ring for his finger, and sandals for his feet. These are not just gifts but symbols of restored identity. The robe covers the filth of the pigsty, the ring declares his sonship, the sandals mark him as a free member of the household, not a barefoot servant.</p>

<p>In both stories, dignity is restored not through the efforts of the recipients but through the gracious declaration of the one in authority.</p>

<h2>The First Meal in a New Land</h2>

<p>The timing of Israel’s arrival in Canaan coincided with Passover—“the evening on the fourteenth day of the month.” This was no accident. Their first meal in the Promised Land would be the meal that commemorated their liberation from Egypt. The past and present were bound together in this sacred feast.</p>

<p>The original Passover had been celebrated on the night of the Exodus, with blood on the doorposts and lintels as a sign of faith and identity, causing the Lord to “pass over” their houses while the destroyer struck down the firstborn of Egypt. Now, generations later, they ate this meal not as refugees fleeing slavery but as a people on the verge of claiming their inheritance.</p>

<p>According to the text, the very next day they “ate the produce of the land, unleavened cakes and parched grain.” The unleavened bread connected them again to that hasty departure from Egypt, when there had been no time to let dough rise. But now this bread was made from the grains of Canaan, not from the mysterious manna.</p>

<p>How might we approach each Eucharist as if it were our first meal in a promised land, rather than a ritual we’ve grown accustomed to? What would it mean to taste the bread and wine with the wonder of those who have just crossed over from death to life?</p>

<p>In the father’s house, the feast features a fatted calf—an extravagant provision that goes far beyond meeting basic needs. This is no ordinary meal but a celebration, a tangible expression of joy. “Let us eat and celebrate,” the father declares, “for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.”</p>

<p>Both meals—the Passover in Gilgal and the feast for the prodigal—mark not just physical nourishment but spiritual transformation. They are meals of remembrance and anticipation, connecting past deliverance with present identity.</p>

<h2>The Table That Remains Open</h2>

<p>The Israelites would continue to celebrate Passover year after year, telling the story to their children when they asked, “What does this observance mean?” (Exodus 12:26). The very stones they set up after crossing the Jordan would prompt similar questions: “What do these stones mean?” (Joshua 4:6). Their journey would be marked by regular returns to the foundational stories of their faith.</p>

<p>The Gospel doesn’t tell us what happened after the father’s feast. Did the celebration become an annual tradition? Did the elder son eventually join in? We can only wonder. But we know that Jesus told this parable to illustrate the heart of the Father who welcomes sinners and eats with them.</p>

<p>Each Sunday, the table is set again—as though for the first time. We return, not as strangers but as weary travelers, as sons and daughters who have wandered and worked and waited. Some come from far countries, others from fields of quiet obedience, still others from dry and aching wildernesses. Yet the bread is broken, the cup poured, and the feast laid out—not merely as a memory, but as a mercy. Our deliverance is not just remembered; it is tasted.</p>

<p>What does it mean that God doesn’t just forgive but celebrates our return? How might this change our approach to the communion table—or to those who return to our communities after seasons of absence?</p>

<p>The manna ceased when Israel entered the land, but God’s provision never did. The form changed, but the source remained the same. In our own journeys, the ways God sustains us may shift as we move through different seasons of life, but the divine commitment to our flourishing remains constant.</p>

<p>As we continue our Lenten journey toward Jerusalem and the ultimate feast of Easter, these ancient stories invite us to consider the meals that mark our transitions, the declarations that transform our identity, and the God who both provides daily bread and prepares celebratory feasts.</p>

<p>Where are you in this story? Are you just crossing into new territory, still adjusting to the end of one form of provision and the beginning of another? Are you returning from a far country, rehearsing words of contrition as you make your way home? Are you the elder brother, struggling to celebrate the grace extended to others? Or are you simply hungry, coming to the table once again to be fed?</p>

<p>Whatever your answer, the table remains open, the feast prepared. Our disgrace has been rolled away. The produce of the land awaits.</p>