Wrestling Jacob
In our Old Testament reading this morning, brothers and
sisters, the patriarch Jacob is getting ready to have the snot beat out of
him. And frankly, he’s got it coming.
Jacob is an unlikely hero, to say the least. In fact,
were his story written today, he’d probably be classified as an
anti-hero. The moral ambiguity surrounding his character stems largely
from his habit of being a trickster—a deceiver. Like Odysseus for the
Greeks and Loki for the Norse, Jacob uses his devious mind to get a leg up on
both friend and foe alike. And frankly, he’s good at it. For those
unfamiliar with his story, Jacob is one of twin sons born to Isaac, making him
the grandson of Abraham. As a descendant of Abraham, Jacob inherits the
unbreakable promise of God’s love and fidelity made to his ancestor. But
that doesn’t mean that he deserves this promise, nor that he is its only
recipient.
As I mentioned, Jacob is a twin, and according to the Bible
he and his brother Esau waged battle against each other even inside their
mother’s womb. Esau was born first and was named for his rough
appearance, red and covered in hair. But bizarrely, his brother came out
clutching Esau’s heel in defiance, and so was named Jacob, which means
“supplanter,” or “leg-puller.” As they aged, Esau grew into a mighty
hunter and outdoorsman, beloved especially by his father. Jacob, on the
other hand, is described as a homebody and momma’s boy. Through trickery
and conspiracy, Jacob manipulates both his father and elder brother into
granting him the firstborn’s birthright; in effect, he cheats Esau out of his
inheritance. Esau is enraged, and Jacob suddenly remembers how good his
brother is with sharp, pointy things. So Jacob sensibly runs far, far
away.
During the years of his self-imposed exile, Jacob falls in
love, gets tricked by his would-be bride’s father into marrying her elder
sister as well, and ends up dishing out some pretty large doses of payback—not
through force but through deception. If you’ve ever wondered why people
refer to being fooled as having their leg pulled, well, now you know; it comes
from stories of Jacob, the leg-puller. The good news is that Jacob ends
up winning both the girl he loves and a wealth of livestock. The bad news
is that he so angers his father-in-law that once again Jacob must flee the wrath
of a larger man. So he heads out for home. And even though it’s
been so very many years, Jacob remembers how he cheated his brother Esau, and
he fears that his brother will reap a dire vengeance indeed.
All of which brings us to this morning’s tale. Jacob
has sent his family and herds across the river Jabbok to safety, and spends the
night alone on the far bank, expecting—indeed, dreading—that Esau will melt out
of the shadows and put an arrow in his back. So Jacob can’t be terribly
surprised when a man attacks him in the dark. They struggle all night,
wrestling back and forth, until finally the dawn is about to break. Jacob
shows astonishing tenacity, refusing to let his assailant go even after his hip
is knocked out of joint. By now he knows something extraordinary is
occurring. As the twilight grows his attacker implores him, “Let me go,
for day is breaking!” But Jacob is adamant: “I will not let you go until
you bless me!” he demands.
“You will no longer be called Jacob, the leg-puller,” his
opponent proclaims, “but now your name is Israel, which means ‘persevere with
God’—for you have struggled against both God and Man, and you have
prevailed.” The stranger blesses Jacob, now Israel, and vanishes into the
night, leaving Israel alone and in shock. “It was God,” Israel
gasps. “I have seen God and lived!” For it was well known amongst
the descendants of Abraham that God’s glory is too much for frail mortal eyes
to endure. That was why the stranger needed to vanish before dawn; if
Israel had seen His face, he would’ve been killed.
What did Israel encounter that night, alone and vulnerable
in the shadows? Many have said that it was an angel of the Lord, others
that it was God Himself in human form. Whatever the case, Israel and his
descendants became ever after the people who struggled with God and yet
who persevered. Wrestling with God… I’m not sure that one could ever come
up with a better image for the life of faith. Living as a Christian is a
bizarre and perplexing path to trod. It is a road filled paradoxically
with great dangers and great security. As with Israel, God sometimes
seems both to bless us and cripple us in a single encounter. Oftentimes
God seems silent. Oftentimes we are afraid. Doubt, I’ve found, is
not so much the opposite of faith as it is an integral part of faith.
After all, had we no faith, we’d have nothing to doubt at all, now would we?
We live in a world wrought with danger, tragedy, and
uncertainty. Bad things absolutely happen to good people, and suffering
is often undeserved and unjust. There’s no better example of that than
the life of Christ Himself. And we know that this is not due to the will
of God, Who never intended for Man to sin and for the world to fall into its
current broken state. God does not cause tragedy—to the contrary, our
Lord is ever at work healing, forgiving, and raising the world to new
life! But He works in His own mysterious ways, doesn’t He? And in
His own ever-patient time.
When we struggle with injury and illness; when we mourn the
loss of those we love; when we cry questions into the bleak night sky and do
not hear a response; we may understand that God did not cause our distress—but
it also eats away at us to know that on some level, and for whatever reason,
God allows it. Why doesn’t God act more swiftly, more
decisively? Why doesn’t God just snap His almighty fingers and make it
all better? In short, why doesn’t God act the way that we would if
we were God? Who is God to think He knows better than us?
This is the very question, I think, that Jesus answers in His parable this
morning, when His disciples find themselves wrestling with a broken, unjust
world, and therefore also wrestling with God.
Jesus, the Scriptures say, told to His followers a parable
about to need to persevere with God in prayer and never to lose heart.
“There was once an unjust judge, who had no fear of God nor any respect for the
people,” He told them. “And a widow, vulnerable and alone, kept pestering
him night and day, demanding justice. Finally, exasperated and exhausted,
the judge granted to her justice, if for no other reason than to stop her from
continually embarrassing him by laying bare the truth. How much more,
then,” sayeth the Lord, “will God do for you?”
Seems a bit bizarre, doesn’t it? Persistence, Jesus
says, rouses even the most selfish and unjust of sinners. How much more,
then, will persistence rouse with God! But what does that mean,
really? That God only calls you back after you’ve left Him enough messages?
That God does not respond to His children until He’s good and ready, wishing to
be left alone? What does God have in common with the unjust judge…?
The answer, of course, is nothing. God has nothing in common with
the unjust judge.
Now that’s comforting, I’ll admit. It’s a relief to
know that the judge in the parable is an example of what God doesn’t do,
rather than what God does. But this leaves us with a bit of a
conundrum. You see, Jesus’ parables are always about the relationship
between God and His people. Even when God doesn’t seem obvious in the
story, we find Him in the needs of our neighbor, living with the most
vulnerable amongst us. So then, if Jesus makes it clear that God is not
the judge in this parable—who is? And where is God?
The conclusion, it seems, is inevitable. Our reflex,
of course, is to cast God in the judge’s seat and ourselves as the poor wronged
widow whose prayers go unanswered. But Jesus has just flipped all of our
expectations on their heads. God is not the unjust judge; we are.
We are the people placed in authority, created to be stewards of the Earth and
keepers of our brethren. We are the nation of priests, called and blessed
and forgiven that we might share our gifts with others. And that
means—oh, Lord forgive us—that means that God is the widow. God is the
wronged. God is the one Who pesters us, hounds us, prays to us, night and
day, to grant justice, to serve the needy, to fulfill our duty and the high
position assigned to us. God is the widow and we are the ones ignoring
Her.
So by all means, brothers and sisters, persevere in
prayer. God works in His own ways and in His own time—but He is never
deaf to our pleas, nor absent from our lives. Yet let us remember that
while we are praying to Him, so is God pursuing us. He still comes in the
night to struggle with us, to wrestle with us. He still perseveres in His
love for sinners, even when we have no fear of God and no respect for
people. He still acts in ways both mundane and miraculous, moving so
obviously and with such power that only people as blind as we have become could
fail to see.
But most importantly, dear Christians, God promises to us
that even now the day is breaking—and He will not let us go until we
bless Him.
Thanks be to Christ, Who wrestles with us in the
night. In Jesus’ Name. AMEN.
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