To Strive With God

Luke 18:1-8; Genesis 32:24-31

October 20, 2013

I found myself this week listening to that old Alanis Morrisette song “Thank U,” with its list of unexpected gratitude. Remember this:

Thank you India.

Thank you terror.

Thank you disillusionment.

Thank you frailty.

Thank you consequence.

Thank you providence.

Thank you nothingness.

Thank you clarity.

Thank you silence.

Sometimes we find ourselves giving thanks for the most unexpected blessing, and in our strange gratitude our eyes open to new possibilities.

It’s commonplace to read the parable in Luke from the perspective of the widow, and to see her as a paragon of determined faith. From that point of view, we’re supposed to be inspired to persistence in the faith even in the face of life’s difficulties and disappointments. That’s a perfectly fine reading, but when I read this story alongside the famous wrestling match in Genesis, I found myself more interested in the faith life of the dishonest judge than in that of the faithful widow.

I can imagine him, looking out at the widow at first and thinking to himself, “I don’t care a whit about this woman and her petty concerns.” Gradually, over time, the way that water wears down stone by seeping into tiny cracks, her persistence creates fissures of doubt in his mind. Perhaps it’s just doubt in his capacity to put up with day-by-day insistence. Maybe it’s deeper doubt about his own intransigence. Maybe he even begins to doubt some core belief that predisposed him to disdain for the widow in the first place.

But whatever its nature, the doubt slips in and, eventually, causes the rupture in his mind that leads him to say, “fine; you win; have it your way!”

The most typical way of reading this parable invites us to emulate the persistent widow in her faithfulness and to remind us that God is a just and loving judge. But what if we flip the reading and look at God as the persistent one pressing us over and over, day by day, to live according to justice and love?

That leaves us as the judge – initially saying, “I don’t care a whit about God and God’s concerns.”

God, in divine persistence, works away on us, never losing hope that we might open our hearts and minds to the presence of the Divine even in the midst of life’s difficulties and disappointments. God is willing and able to wrestle us into submission.

Looked at from that perspective, the wrestling image at the heart of the Genesis passage comes into clearer focus, too.

It’s helpful to hear, in brief, a bit of context for the passage we just heard. Recall that Jacob is, well, estranged from his brother Esau. It’s perhaps helpful to know that Jacob’s very name – at the beginning of the story – means, among other things, “trickster” and “supplanter.” He has tricked Esau out of the older brother’s legal birthright, and then run away and, eventually, through even more tricks, made a goodly fortune on his own.

At the point in the story where this morning’s reading takes place, Jacob is about to meet up with his big brother, and the younger brother is torn between a bit of remorse and a lot of fear. Jacob imagines the scene to come: big brother who was ripped off by conniving younger sibling, welcomes younger brother to his camp – awkward.  As the text says, “Jacob was greatly afraid and distressed.”

So, being a trickster, he ponders the scene and all its possible outcomes, and then connives to put his best foot forward in the safest possible way. Then he tries to get a good night sleep before the grand meeting.

That’s when the trickster gets tricked.

Under cover of darkness “a man” comes upon Jacob and wrestles with him straight on through the night. The text never clarifies the identity of the one with whom Jacob grapples. A demon? A stranger? Esau, himself, in anticipation of the next morning’s uneasy reunion? Yahweh – the God of Abraham whose divine name has not been revealed at this point in the history of Israel, whose own name will be given as a result of this meeting?

The text resists easy reduction and simple interpretation. That’s what makes it such a good story, and one worth wrestling with.

Even if we take the traditional route – and I tend to read it this way – that Jacob is wrestling with God, the story compels us to ask about the nature of the divine. As Walter Brueggemann asks:

But if this other one is God, what does it mean to say that Jacob has come to a draw with him? What kind of God is it who will be pressed to a draw by this man? And what kind of man is our father Jacob that he can force a draw, even against heaven? This is no ordinary man. And certainly no ordinary God! Clearly, this is no ordinary story.[1]

Perhaps this extraordinary story is not only the beginning of Israel – literally, as this is where God gives Jacob that name – but also the beginning of a theology of the cross – a theology that insists that we look for God not in absolute power but, instead, in powerlessness, in weakness, in the agency of transforming last to first, of outsider to insider, or, what’s better, of rendering such hierarchies and power structures essentially meaningless.

If we look for God in weakness – as the persistent widow, for example – it shifts the way we see the world.

That’s at least part of what’s going on in the Jacob story. From the beginning,  Jacob has tried to live according to cultural values simply by turning them upside down. Through all his tricks, Jacob has tried to get to the top of the hill by tossing others over the edge, never pausing to consider the possibility of a completely different landscape, a completely different set of values. His plotting in preparation for meeting his brother is all designed to ensure that Jacob will prevail, that he will leave the encounter with his family and finances secure even though the entire edifice was built on a foundation stolen from Esau.

Jacob has sought, from the beginning of his story, the blessings of power and affluence, but in the night he receives an entirely other kind of blessing and is transformed.

The story remains open, and the precise nature of the blessing and of the new relationship of the people of Israel with God remains undecided. But somewhere in the night, some doubt crept in to Jacob’s mind about the trajectory he expected to follow.

Last week we talked about “seeing with the eyes of the heart” – about how a heart, opened in gratitude – enables us to see the world differently. This week’s readings – with their emphasis on persistence, struggle and change – suggest that a mind, opened, perhaps, in doubt, enables us to see the world differently, as well.

So this morning I find myself giving thanks for doubt.

Doubts about the accepted “verities” can drive us to consider previously obscured possibilities.

Doubts about God can drive us deeper into the questions of faith, and lead us to new understandings that are as rich, deep, subtle and nuanced as life itself.

Doubts about ourselves can drive us into the embrace of others in a community that provides what we lack on our own.

So, thank you doubt. Thank you questions with no easy answers. Thank you stories that raise such questions. Thank you community that rests lovingly in the questions. Thank you God who comes to me in the doubts and struggles and questions, who comes to me in weakness, who comes to make us strong precisely in those weak places for the sake of the broken places in our own lives and the life of the world. Thank you. Amen.

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[1] Walter Brueggemann, Genesis (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1982) 267.