A Flicker of Light in the Darkness Text: Judges 19:16-21
Introduction: When the Lights Go Out in Israel
The book of Judges is a grim record, a downward spiral into chaos, apostasy, and moral anarchy. The refrain that bookends this final, ghastly section is this: "In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes" (Judges 17:6, 21:25). This is not a libertarian paradise. This is a horror show. It is the inevitable result when a nation cuts the cord of divine authority and decides that every man is his own god, his own lawgiver, and his own king.
And here, in chapter 19, we are in the deepest, darkest part of the abyss. We have a Levite, a minister of God's house, who is shacked up with a concubine, a woman who is not his wife. This man, who should be a pillar of moral clarity, is himself compromised from the start. He is traveling through the land of his own people, the covenant people of God, and finds himself in Gibeah, a town in the tribe of Benjamin. And as the sun goes down, he discovers that he is safer in a pagan city than he is among his own brethren. No one, not one person in the city, will offer him hospitality. The covenant bonds have utterly dissolved. This is a society that has rotted from the inside out.
The public square, which should be the center of civic life and shared fellowship, has become a place of cold indifference and lurking danger. For a traveler to be left in the open square overnight was a profound social failure, a declaration that the city had no honor, no fear of God, and no love for neighbor. It was a violation of the law of God, which repeatedly commands Israel to care for the sojourner, the stranger, because they were once sojourners in Egypt (Lev. 19:34). But they have forgotten their God, and so they have forgotten who they are. They have become like the pagans they were supposed to drive out. In fact, they have become worse.
Into this profound darkness, this moral black hole, our text for today shines a single, solitary flicker of light. It is the kindness of one old man. This is not the story of a great hero, a mighty judge, or a prophet. It is the story of a simple man who did a simple, decent thing in a world gone mad. And in his simple act of obedience, we see a remnant of the old paths, a ghost of what Israel was supposed to be. But we also see how fragile such decency is when the foundations of a society have been destroyed.
The Text
But behold, an old man was coming from his work, from the field, at evening. Now the man was from the hill country of Ephraim, and he was sojourning in Gibeah, but the men of the place were Benjamites. And he lifted up his eyes and saw the traveler in the open square of the city; and the old man said, “Where are you going, and where do you come from?” And he said to him, “We are passing from Bethlehem in Judah to the remote part of the hill country of Ephraim. I am from there, and I went to Bethlehem in Judah. But I am now going to the house of Yahweh, and no man is taking me into his house. Yet there is both straw and fodder for our donkeys, and also bread and wine for me, your maidservant, and the young man who is with your servants; there is no lack of anything.” Then the old man said, “Peace be to you. Only let me take care of all that you lack; however, do not spend the night in the open square.” So he brought him into his house and gave the donkeys fodder, and they washed their feet and ate and drank.
(Judges 19:16-21 LSB)
A Sojourner's Decency (v. 16-17)
We begin with the appearance of this unexpected host.
"But behold, an old man was coming from his work, from the field, at evening. Now the man was from the hill country of Ephraim, and he was sojourning in Gibeah, but the men of the place were Benjamites. And he lifted up his eyes and saw the traveler in the open square of the city; and the old man said, 'Where are you going, and where do you come from?'" (Judges 19:16-17)
The first thing we note is that this man is a working man. He is coming in from the field at evening, at the end of a day's labor. This is a picture of faithfulness in the small things. While the city of Gibeah is festering with men of Belial, men of worthlessness who will soon reveal their depravity, this man is engaged in honest work. He is a man of routine, of duty, of responsibility. The foundations of a healthy society are built on such men.
The second crucial detail is that he, like the Levite, is not a native of Gibeah. He is from Ephraim, just like the Levite, and is a "sojourner" in this Benjamite city. The irony here is thick enough to cut with a knife. The only man who will show covenant hospitality in a city of Benjamin is a man who is not from Benjamin. The native Benjamites, the men who truly "belonged" there, had abandoned their covenant obligations entirely. It was the outsider, the resident alien, who remembered how an Israelite was supposed to behave. This is a stinging indictment. When the church becomes apostate, sometimes the clearest demonstrations of common grace and decency come from outside the institution.
He sees the travelers in the open square, a place where no one should be as night falls, and he does what no one else has done. He approaches them. He speaks to them. He engages. His questions are simple and direct: "Where are you going, and where do you come from?" This is the beginning of all true hospitality. It is not just about providing food and shelter; it is about taking an interest in the other person. It is about seeing them not as a problem or an inconvenience, but as a fellow image-bearer of God with a story. In a city defined by cold indifference, this simple act of inquiry is a radical act of love.
A Self-Sufficient Plea (v. 18-19)
The Levite's response reveals both his journey and his desperation.
"And he said to him, 'We are passing from Bethlehem in Judah to the remote part of the hill country of Ephraim. I am from there, and I went to Bethlehem in Judah. But I am now going to the house of Yahweh, and no man is taking me into his house. Yet there is both straw and fodder for our donkeys, and also bread and wine for me, your maidservant, and the young man who is with your servants; there is no lack of anything.'" (Judges 19:18-19 LSB)
The Levite lays out his travel plans, but the key phrase is at the end of verse 18: "no man is taking me into his house." This is the scandal. He is not just any traveler; he is a Levite, on his way to "the house of Yahweh," which at that time was in Shiloh. He is a minister of the covenant, and the covenant people have shut their doors to him. This is a society that has excommunicated itself from God. To reject God's minister is to reject God.
But then the Levite says something that is both a point of honor and a subtle plea. He makes it clear he is not a beggar. He says, "there is no lack of anything." He has provisions. He has straw for the donkeys, bread and wine for the people. He is not asking for a handout. He is asking for something far more fundamental: shelter, safety, and fellowship. He is asking for a roof over his head in a city of his own people. His self-sufficiency highlights the wickedness of the Benjamites even more. They were not being asked to shoulder a great financial burden. They were simply being asked to open a door. And they refused.
This is a picture of how sin isolates. The men of Gibeah are so turned in on themselves, so consumed by their own lusts and hatreds, that they cannot even perform the most basic act of human decency for a man who asks nothing of them but a place to sleep. They are spiritual black holes, absorbing all light and giving nothing back.
The Offer of True Peace (v. 20)
The old man's response is the moral center of this entire episode. It is a beautiful display of covenant faithfulness.
"Then the old man said, 'Peace be to you. Only let me take care of all that you lack; however, do not spend the night in the open square.'" (Judges 19:20 LSB)
He begins with "Peace be to you." Shalom. This is not just a casual "hello." It is a covenantal blessing. It means wholeness, completeness, well-being, and security in God. In a city where there is no peace, he speaks peace. He is a one-man embassy of the kingdom of God.
Then he brushes aside the Levite's claim to have no lack. "Only let me take care of all that you lack." He sees the real lack. The Levite might have bread and wine, but he lacks safety. He lacks fellowship. He lacks a place of rest. The old man understands that true hospitality is not a business transaction; it is taking on the needs of the other as your own. He essentially says, "Your problem is now my problem. Your vulnerability is now my responsibility." This is the heart of Christian love. It is bearing one another's burdens and so fulfilling the law of Christ (Galatians 6:2).
His final command is emphatic: "however, do not spend the night in the open square." He understands the danger. He knows what his city has become. The open square is not a neutral space; it is a place of threat. To leave them there would be to abandon them to the wolves. This old man, in his simple decency, is a shepherd, while the rest of the city, and indeed the compromised Levite himself, are acting like wolves or hirelings.
The Covenant Meal (v. 21)
The chapter of this interaction concludes with a picture of true fellowship, a stark contrast to what is about to happen.
"So he brought him into his house and gave the donkeys fodder, and they washed their feet and ate and drank." (Judges 19:21 LSB)
The action is swift and complete. He brings him into his house, securing him from the danger outside. He cares for the animals, demonstrating that his concern extends to the whole traveling party. Then, two profoundly significant things happen: they washed their feet, and they ate and drank.
Washing the feet was a fundamental act of hospitality in the ancient world. It was a sign of welcome, of refreshment after a long journey on dusty roads, and of honor. It was an act of service, usually performed by the lowest servant in the household. Here, it signifies a restoration of dignity to the rejected travelers.
And then they ate and drank. A shared meal is never just about refueling. In the Bible, to eat with someone is to establish a bond of fellowship, peace, and mutual obligation. It is a covenant act. This meal is a sign that the host has accepted the guests under his protection, and they have accepted his fellowship. It is a small island of covenant order in a vast sea of covenant chaos. This is what Israel was supposed to look like: a people dwelling together in safety, sharing God's provision with one another, bound by love and mutual care. For a brief moment, in this one man's house, the light of God's law is shining.
Conclusion: The Fragility of Decency
This passage is a portrait of righteousness. This old man does everything right. He sees a need, he takes initiative, he offers peace, he assumes responsibility, and he seals his welcome with the covenant actions of foot-washing and a shared meal. He is a model of biblical hospitality.
And yet, it is not enough. This one man's decency, as beautiful as it is, cannot hold back the tidal wave of depravity that has consumed his city. In the very next verse, the house will be surrounded by "worthless fellows" demanding to commit homosexual rape, an act that precisely mirrors the sin of Sodom (Genesis 19). The host's righteousness provides a temporary refuge, but it cannot fix the systemic, spiritual cancer that has eaten away the soul of his people.
This teaches us a crucial lesson. Individual acts of piety and decency are essential. We are all called to be this old man in our own Gibeah. We are called to offer hospitality, to speak peace, to care for the vulnerable, to shine as lights in the darkness. But we must not be naive. A society that has abandoned God cannot be saved by sentiment or by isolated acts of kindness alone. The entire structure is rotten. The problem is not a lack of nice old men; the problem is a rejection of the King.
When everyone does what is right in his own eyes, the result is not freedom, but a world where the most monstrous evils become commonplace. The story of Judges is a long, dark, bloody argument for the necessity of a righteous king. The flicker of light in this old man's house makes us long for a greater light. The peace he offers makes us long for a greater Prince of Peace. The refuge of his house makes us long for a greater refuge, a true city of God.
This story, in all its horror, points us forward to the one true King, Jesus Christ. He is the ultimate host who sees us, lost and vulnerable in the open square of our sin. He approaches us, not because we are worthy, but because He is gracious. He says "Peace be to you," and He does not just wish it, He accomplishes it through His blood. He takes all our lack upon Himself at the cross. He brings us into His house, the church. He washes our feet, cleansing us from all our sin. And He invites us to His table, to eat and drink with Him, sealing us in an everlasting covenant of fellowship. The decency of this old man was a fragile flicker, but the righteousness of Christ is a sun that will never be extinguished.