The Ancient Landmarks

Introduction
The sun had barely climbed over the hills when a small boy tugged at his father’s robe. His feet were dusty from wandering too close to the camp’s edge. In his hand, a stick. In his eyes, a question. “Daddy, what’s that big pile of rocks for?” The father followed his son’s gaze. There they stood—twelve large stones, stacked one upon the other, worn but unmoved. The formation was unremarkable to the untrained eye. But to those who remembered, it was holy. The man smiled. Not because the question was simple—but because it opened a sacred door. A door to memory. A door to testimony. A door to worship. He knelt beside his son, placed a weathered hand on his shoulder, and began to speak—not just of stones, but of rivers parted, promises kept, and a God who walks with His people. That moment was never about rocks. It was about remembrance. It’s a scene as ancient as Joshua and as current as your kitchen table. Because even today, the question lingers—sometimes from our children, sometimes from the skeptics, sometimes from our own hearts in dry seasons:

“What do these stones mean?”

Why do we worship? Why do we trust this Book written centuries ago? Why do we tell old stories with tears in our eyes and fire in our voices? Why do we keep stacking moments of faith when the world calls it foolish? We remember so we don’t forget. We tell the story so the next generation will still know His name.

In this devotional, we will journey back to the banks of the Jordan River and watch a miracle unfold beneath the feet of a faithful people. But more than that, we will learn how to build “memorials” of our own—spiritual markers that declare to every wandering eye and doubting heart: “Here is where God showed up. Here is where God made a way. Here is where I crossed over—and I will never forget.”


Crossing Over—When the Impossible Opens Up
Before the memorial was ever built, there was the miracle. Picture the scene: Israel’s entire nation—men, women, children, elders, and warriors—lined up at the edge of the flooded Jordan River. They were on the brink of promise, but still held back by the tide. The waters surged and roared, swollen with spring rains, defying any attempt to cross. And then God gave a command that seemed absurd: Step in. Not wait until the river parts. Not build a bridge or find a raft. Step in. First. In faith.

“And it shall come to pass, as soon as the soles of the feet of the priests... shall rest in the waters of the Jordan, that the waters... shall be cut off.” — Joshua 3:13
 
God didn’t part the waters until their feet got wet. And isn’t that often how He works with us? Miracles on the other side of movement. Breakthroughs on the other side of obedience. The moment their sandals sank into the current, the river froze upstream. The people crossed—not with damp hems and frantic fear, but on dry ground, steady and sure. God didn’t just get them through. He made the impossible peaceful beneath their feet.


Memorial Stones and the Cost of Forgetting
As the last foot stepped onto the promised shore, God spoke again—not about swords or cities or battles—but about memory.

“Take for yourselves twelve stones... from the midst of the Jordan... and carry them over with you... that this may be a sign among you.” — Joshua 4:3–6
 
Twelve stones. One for each tribe. Each man selected a stone not at random, but from the very spot where the Ark of the Covenant had stood—God’s throne on earth in the middle of the river. These were not just rocks pulled from a riverbed—they were sacred markers of an encounter with the living God. They weren’t meant for decoration. They were declarations. These stones were sermons, silently crying out to every generation:  "Remember the faithfulness of the Lord. Remember the day He made a way. Remember how He delivered you through the waters." The stones were supposed to spark conversations—conversations between fathers and children, mentors and disciples, communities and newcomers. The act of remembering was not passive; it was liturgical. It was an act of worship.

But something tragic unfolded over time. As Israel moved from wilderness to cities, from tents to homes, the extraordinary became ordinary. The urgency to remember gave way to the comforts of routine. And soon, what was once a vivid testimony became a silent relic. Judges 2:10 offers a sobering epitaph:

"When all that generation had been gathered to their fathers, another generation arose after them who did not know the Lord nor the work which He had done for Israel." 

This wasn’t a failure of knowledge. It was a failure of witness. How does a generation forget the Red Sea? The manna? The Jordan? When the storytellers go quiet, the next generation goes blind. This is the high cost of forgetting. When we don’t actively preserve the testimony of God’s power, we risk raising a generation that inherits our faith's rituals but not its fire. They may know the songs but not the Savior. They may visit the sanctuary but never encounter the God of the sanctuary. Let us be the generation that breaks that silence. Let us stack our own stones and speak their stories loudly. Let us make it impossible for those who come after us to forget.


Our Modern Stones—We All Have a Story to Tell
Today, our “stones” don’t look like river rocks. They look like healed scars. Like journals scribbled with tear-streaked prayers. Like the time you were flat broke, but God made rent appear. Like the diagnosis that was reversed. Like the job that came just in time. Like the peace that held you when grief knocked the wind out of your soul. Your stones are real. And they preach.

The next generation doesn’t need trendy influencers—they need truth-bearers. They need uncles and aunts and moms and mentors who will say, “Let me tell you about the night I almost gave up... and how God showed up.” Don’t hide your miracles. Stack them. Build something visible with what God has done, and when someone asks, “What’s that about?”—tell them.


Teaching More Than Trivia—Discipleship in a Digital Age
We live in an age where information is instant, but formation is rare. The enemy isn’t just trying to silence the church—he’s trying to distract the family. If we outsource our discipleship to a Sunday sermon or a once-a-week youth group, we are raising a generation with just enough faith to recognize God, but not enough to walk with Him. Deuteronomy 6 didn’t command pastors to teach—it commanded parents:

“You shall teach them diligently to your children... when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up.”

Faith must be more than a sermon; it must become a lifestyle.

Without the stones, we drift. When we forget the God who carried us, we start to carry ourselves. Pride creeps in. Gratitude grows quiet. Prayer becomes optional. The God of wonder becomes a religious routine. But when we keep the stories fresh—when we celebrate every answered prayer, every breakthrough, every act of grace—we not only feed our faith, we fertilize the next generation’s hunger for God. Remembering God’s faithfulness in the past is fuel to believe Him for the future.


Passing It On—Our Sacred Assignment
There is a child—biological or spiritual—who will one day ask, “Why do we do this? Why do we pray? Why do we sing so passionately? Why are people baptized? Why do people cry when we worship?” Don’t say, “Ask the pastor.” Say, “Let me tell you about my God.” Open your mouth. Tell your story. If you don’t know what to say, start with this: “I was lost, and now I’m found. I was broken, and now I’m healed. Let me tell you how...”
That’s discipleship. That’s building with stones.


Prayer
Father, Thank You for the stones—the moments You made a way when there was no way. Thank You for the times You held us, healed us, led us, and loved us. Forgive us for every time we forgot. For every time we stayed silent when we should have shared. Lord, awaken in us a passion to remember and a conviction to teach. Make us storytellers of Your glory. Help us build altars that point not to our past, but to Your presence. Stir our hearts to disciple the next generation with boldness and compassion. Give us courage to speak, humility to listen, and joy in the journey. In the name of Jesus, amen.