and Genesis 32:22-32
Sunday, March 12, 2023 (Lent 3)
1.
These brothers, Jacob and Esau, have a complicated and contentious relationship. As brothers sometimes do. It’s a relationship seasoned with deceit, peppered perhaps with jealousy, and the two of them haven’t really talked or even tried in a long, long while. Now maybe you’ve got a storyline like this in your own family: a brother you don’t trust, a sister whose politics you loathe, an ex who’s stolen something from you, something precious and irretrievable. It happens sometimes. In families. Between brothers.
So you can appreciate what Jacob’s going through, as he anticipates his reunion with Esau after a long, long while. How Jacob’s anxious and irritable. How he’s sleeping poorly at night or not at all. Because it’s not exactly clear what Esau’s got in mind after all these years—revenge maybe, reconciliation possibly. But it’s not clear. And Jacob’s wondering, worrying how this will go, with the brother he loved but lost, the brother he needed but betrayed, so many years ago. (By the way, if you’re thinking ‘prodigal son’ connections, here, and inter-testamental playfulness—I think you’re on the right track!)
2.
So on the eve of their reunion. Actually, all night long, for hours on end, all through that dark night. On the banks of the Yabbok River. Jacob wrestles with somebody, something, some kind of being til the first light of dawn. And this isn’t a little two-step. This is Ali-Frazier. This is high stakes conflict. Is it the spirit of his brother, Esau? Maybe. Is it some kind of angel, as so many artists, through so many years, have suggested? Maybe. Is it God? Is Jacob contending all night long with the God he loves, with the God he serves, with the God he can’t quite name, but surely does need? Lots of questions with a story like this.
It's telling, perhaps, that the story just doesn’t say. Surely it’s plausible that the anticipated reunion has Jacob on edge; that he’s anxious about the way he and Esau left things; that he’s even distressed by his own responsibility for the rift between them. But there seems also to be a Godly aspect to his adversary that night. Somehow Jacob’s reached that point in his life, in his spiritual journey, in his unfolding story—where he has to struggle with God. Where he has to contend with God. Where he has to show God that he can stand up for himself—even and especially when he’s face to face with his Maker.
“In the night,” says theologian Walter Brueggemann, “the divine antagonist tends to take on the features of others with whom we struggle in the day.”
3.
So there’s a notion. Mull that one over as you consider your dreams this week. In the night, the divine antagonist tends to take on the features of others with whom we struggle in the day. Imagine, then, that your contentious relationship with a colleague at work is a divine drama—and that, through and inside that drama, you and God are working out the dynamics of God’s blessing in your life. It’s a stretch, I know. But it’s kind of like what’s happening in the story today.
Or this. Imagine that your long, long journey to reconciliation—with that estranged sister, or that prodigal son, or that judgmental cousin in your life—imagine that your attempt to reconcile (which, face it, may or may not be successful) is a divine drama. And that through and inside that drama, you and God are working out the dynamics of God’s blessing in your life.
Or even more to the point. Could it be that our conflicts, the differences we negotiate in church life, the budgets we have to reconcile, the divergent expectations we bring to worship or mission; could it be that messiness and hard work are themselves the arenas where we wrestle with God, discover the godly in one another, and begin to celebrate the blessing and the grace that God bestows on us? And on our community?
The good news is this: that God is invested, intimately invested, in the messiness and hard work of human community, and loving partnerships, and family relationships. God is invested and committed!
But here’s the thing. Jacob is wounded in this encounter with the adversary he meets in the dark of night. There’s no question about it. The text couldn’t be any clearer. The adversary strikes at the socket of Jacob’s hip, Jacob is undoubtedly wounded, his hip painfully dislocated; and when all is said and done, Jacob moves on to look for Esau, to live his life, even to revel in his blessing—with a significant and unambiguous limp in his step. In the words of the great poet and Canadian songwriter Leonard Cohen, “Love is not a victory march.” Faith is not a forever celebration of all the ways we get it right, all the ways God’s selects us for glory, all the ways we’re protected from hurt and harm. It just doesn’t work that way.
But isn’t it stunning, and isn’t it wonderful that Jacob is blessed, and blessed as a partner, as a contender, even as an “overcomer” of God—just the same! In his willingness to wrestle with God, he is blessed by the One who knows his name and chooses him for partnership. In his vulnerability, in his susceptibility to dislocation and suffering, he is blessed by the One who will always bear that suffering with love and promise. This story, I think, is a complicated and none too easy to digest celebration of the grace that finds us, the grace that showers us, the grace that claims us when we dive in. When we invest our spirit and our resources and our dreams in one another. When we risk speaking hard truths and listening carefully and compassionately to others. When we limp away, wounded, because the mission is hard. And the work is difficult. And our egos are fragile. And there’s a price to paid for loving one another, and loving God, and loving the world like this.
Jacob pays that price, on his way to reconciling with his brother. He pays that price, and yes, he is blessed.
4.
This is a Lenten story, I think, because our Lenten path traces Jesus’ journey to the cross. And at that cross, he invites us again to suffer together in love. And at that cross, he invites us again to find hope at the heart of despair. And at that cross, he invites us again to hear a word of grace spoken to a wounded, dislocated people. And this, all of this, is Jesus’ promise to the church. And God’s promise to those who wrestle in the darkness.
So here’s what I’ll be thinking, as we break bread together today.
Let’s bring our questions to the Nameless One, my friends, and let’s risk the discomforts of not knowing. And we will wrestle with God. And we will be blessed. And let’s bring the conflicts that test us, even in the church; bring them to the table. And let us wrestle with God together. And we will be blessed. I dare say that this is the kind of church the world is aching for: not a band of puppets, nodding their heads and reveling in their own salvation at the expense of others; but a humble, human band of brothers; a humble, human circle of sisters; willing to get real with one another, open to the complications of community, and seeking God’s blessing in the weirdness, in the messiness, in the process of figuring it all out.
“Love is not a victory march.” Love is a complicated people, loved beyond limits, committed to peace with justice, wounded and dislocated, and shining with amazing grace. I’m eager to break bread with that kind of church.
Amen and Ashe.
1.
These brothers, Jacob and Esau, have a complicated and contentious relationship. As brothers sometimes do. It’s a relationship seasoned with deceit, peppered perhaps with jealousy, and the two of them haven’t really talked or even tried in a long, long while. Now maybe you’ve got a storyline like this in your own family: a brother you don’t trust, a sister whose politics you loathe, an ex who’s stolen something from you, something precious and irretrievable. It happens sometimes. In families. Between brothers.
So you can appreciate what Jacob’s going through, as he anticipates his reunion with Esau after a long, long while. How Jacob’s anxious and irritable. How he’s sleeping poorly at night or not at all. Because it’s not exactly clear what Esau’s got in mind after all these years—revenge maybe, reconciliation possibly. But it’s not clear. And Jacob’s wondering, worrying how this will go, with the brother he loved but lost, the brother he needed but betrayed, so many years ago. (By the way, if you’re thinking ‘prodigal son’ connections, here, and inter-testamental playfulness—I think you’re on the right track!)
2.
So on the eve of their reunion. Actually, all night long, for hours on end, all through that dark night. On the banks of the Yabbok River. Jacob wrestles with somebody, something, some kind of being til the first light of dawn. And this isn’t a little two-step. This is Ali-Frazier. This is high stakes conflict. Is it the spirit of his brother, Esau? Maybe. Is it some kind of angel, as so many artists, through so many years, have suggested? Maybe. Is it God? Is Jacob contending all night long with the God he loves, with the God he serves, with the God he can’t quite name, but surely does need? Lots of questions with a story like this.
It's telling, perhaps, that the story just doesn’t say. Surely it’s plausible that the anticipated reunion has Jacob on edge; that he’s anxious about the way he and Esau left things; that he’s even distressed by his own responsibility for the rift between them. But there seems also to be a Godly aspect to his adversary that night. Somehow Jacob’s reached that point in his life, in his spiritual journey, in his unfolding story—where he has to struggle with God. Where he has to contend with God. Where he has to show God that he can stand up for himself—even and especially when he’s face to face with his Maker.
“In the night,” says theologian Walter Brueggemann, “the divine antagonist tends to take on the features of others with whom we struggle in the day.”
3.
So there’s a notion. Mull that one over as you consider your dreams this week. In the night, the divine antagonist tends to take on the features of others with whom we struggle in the day. Imagine, then, that your contentious relationship with a colleague at work is a divine drama—and that, through and inside that drama, you and God are working out the dynamics of God’s blessing in your life. It’s a stretch, I know. But it’s kind of like what’s happening in the story today.
Or this. Imagine that your long, long journey to reconciliation—with that estranged sister, or that prodigal son, or that judgmental cousin in your life—imagine that your attempt to reconcile (which, face it, may or may not be successful) is a divine drama. And that through and inside that drama, you and God are working out the dynamics of God’s blessing in your life.
Or even more to the point. Could it be that our conflicts, the differences we negotiate in church life, the budgets we have to reconcile, the divergent expectations we bring to worship or mission; could it be that messiness and hard work are themselves the arenas where we wrestle with God, discover the godly in one another, and begin to celebrate the blessing and the grace that God bestows on us? And on our community?
The good news is this: that God is invested, intimately invested, in the messiness and hard work of human community, and loving partnerships, and family relationships. God is invested and committed!
But here’s the thing. Jacob is wounded in this encounter with the adversary he meets in the dark of night. There’s no question about it. The text couldn’t be any clearer. The adversary strikes at the socket of Jacob’s hip, Jacob is undoubtedly wounded, his hip painfully dislocated; and when all is said and done, Jacob moves on to look for Esau, to live his life, even to revel in his blessing—with a significant and unambiguous limp in his step. In the words of the great poet and Canadian songwriter Leonard Cohen, “Love is not a victory march.” Faith is not a forever celebration of all the ways we get it right, all the ways God’s selects us for glory, all the ways we’re protected from hurt and harm. It just doesn’t work that way.
But isn’t it stunning, and isn’t it wonderful that Jacob is blessed, and blessed as a partner, as a contender, even as an “overcomer” of God—just the same! In his willingness to wrestle with God, he is blessed by the One who knows his name and chooses him for partnership. In his vulnerability, in his susceptibility to dislocation and suffering, he is blessed by the One who will always bear that suffering with love and promise. This story, I think, is a complicated and none too easy to digest celebration of the grace that finds us, the grace that showers us, the grace that claims us when we dive in. When we invest our spirit and our resources and our dreams in one another. When we risk speaking hard truths and listening carefully and compassionately to others. When we limp away, wounded, because the mission is hard. And the work is difficult. And our egos are fragile. And there’s a price to paid for loving one another, and loving God, and loving the world like this.
Jacob pays that price, on his way to reconciling with his brother. He pays that price, and yes, he is blessed.
4.
This is a Lenten story, I think, because our Lenten path traces Jesus’ journey to the cross. And at that cross, he invites us again to suffer together in love. And at that cross, he invites us again to find hope at the heart of despair. And at that cross, he invites us again to hear a word of grace spoken to a wounded, dislocated people. And this, all of this, is Jesus’ promise to the church. And God’s promise to those who wrestle in the darkness.
So here’s what I’ll be thinking, as we break bread together today.
Let’s bring our questions to the Nameless One, my friends, and let’s risk the discomforts of not knowing. And we will wrestle with God. And we will be blessed. And let’s bring the conflicts that test us, even in the church; bring them to the table. And let us wrestle with God together. And we will be blessed. I dare say that this is the kind of church the world is aching for: not a band of puppets, nodding their heads and reveling in their own salvation at the expense of others; but a humble, human band of brothers; a humble, human circle of sisters; willing to get real with one another, open to the complications of community, and seeking God’s blessing in the weirdness, in the messiness, in the process of figuring it all out.
“Love is not a victory march.” Love is a complicated people, loved beyond limits, committed to peace with justice, wounded and dislocated, and shining with amazing grace. I’m eager to break bread with that kind of church.
Amen and Ashe.
