The Gospel Starts with "Go!"

Meditation on Genesis #29

May 14, 2025

Genesis 12:1-2a

Now the LORD said to Abram, “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you. And I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you and make your name great.”

This divine commission to Abram is the whole story of Redemption in a single line, depicting both man’s critical covenantal role in the transaction and Almighty God’s. This commission expresses the pilgrim’s pursuit of an eternal home that is not of this world, depicting faith as an act of following the LORD’s provision rather than finite perception, and presenting a clear picture of the would-be disciple’s moral prerogative to reach out his hand and receive God’s invitation. Notice that God begins His great commission to Abram in the same way He later begins His great commission to the eleven disciples, with the very same imperative, “Go!” We can understand that to mean, “Come now!” Or, to make it more personal, “Come now with Me!” Our response to that call, our decision to pack our bags and lace up our boots and get going out the door, is how we receive the gift. That’s faith in a picture. To hear God’s word and respond by putting feet to it.

Now, whether this departure is easy or difficult for Abram, we don’t know; but between the lines, I imagine Abram has a lot to lose. It’s not like God is offering him an opportunity to own a piece of land in a faraway country while securing his investments back home. No, Abram can’t leave anything behind in that regard. He can’t rent out his apartment for profit and keep his business going in case life on the road doesn’t pan out. There’s no contingency plan in this contract. Maybe this first step is the most difficult for Abram to make, and a shaky one at that, and one that has him hesitating all the way up the hill till his little town is out of sight. Ah, but each move he makes is part of a metamorphosis. Even the clamor of those strained goodbyes and slammed doors and jeering insults that probably showered his exit will soon be buried under a new horizon like dead leaves under a blanket of winter snow. For an old world is passing away and a new world is forming in its wake.

But that’s just one side of the transaction. Almighty God, the Mover and Shaker of this defining moment, punctuates Abram’s pursuit with an indescribable promise. A promise of glory so outstanding that C.S. Lewis exclaimed in The Weight of Glory how it makes him blush just to even speak of it. A reward that only an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-loving Father could even think to make, and, far more remarkable, live to keep—especially considering how many thousands of years of profligacy and downright depravity we’ve made Him endure. But think of it: did Abram ever, even in his wildest dreams, even in his most vainglorious ambitions, desire to be the father of an entire nation? I’m sure he yearned for a son, and probably many sons, and daughters too, and I’m sure he watched old men from time to time tossing up their grandkids in the air with smiles as big as Texas, wishing he could experience that joy for himself, but I can’t imagine the notion ever formed in his mind of fathering an entire people. Oh, but just as God’s ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts higher than our thoughts, so, too, His desires for us are unfathomably greater than our desires for ourselves.

One more principle to consider here. While God demands our unwavering obedience, and deserves it, He isn’t indifferent to our humanity. He knows our weakness and our frailty and our inhibitions. He knows we need something to cling to before we proceed into the great unknown: a vision to help us get through the deep valleys, and a little light to drown out the shadows of doubt. In fact, the entire span of our life of faith, from the first step out our front door to the last step into heaven’s door, is flanked by signposts that bear His unbreakable promises. “My peace I leave with you,” He whispers through the chaos. “Heaven and earth may pass away, but my words will never pass away,” He sings through the storms. “I will never leave you nor forsake you; behold, you are engraved in the palm of my hands,” He calls out through days of despondency. And the more we listen, the more attuned we become to the reverberations of our Redeemer, the more we find that the words aren’t really words at all, but rhythms: pulsations resonating through all facets of earthly life, through all the corridors and crevices of cosmic existence—a heartbeat. And our pilgrim journey is simply a march alongside it.

*I just took the above photograph yesterday at Harris Lake Park, while heading into my favorite forest trail to write. The Longleaf Pines give an enchanting air to the scene, don’t they? There’s a feeling of unpredictability about this wood. It’s inviting and alluring, but mysterious and a bit disarming. We don’t quite know what we’re getting into—what awaits us on the other side. Like the word “Go” when God calls it out to us. I suppose I could’ve illustrated the call of Abram with a beautiful mountain view, full of miles and miles of open terrain, and I’ve got plenty of photographs like that I could’ve used; but I think this picture better signifies Abram’s finite understanding at the moment of God’s call. Abram believes that God has a special land out there somewhere with his name on it, but he can’t see it yet. What lies before him is a path, not yet a prize: a test, not yet a triumph: a mystery, not yet a country. And the trail itself is off the beaten path as it were, through a less travelled route, narrow and unpaved, full of loose rocks and potholes and puddles, oh, but with a promise of stunning clearings along the way and an everlasting vista at the end!