To Wrestle With God (Based on Gen 32:22-31)

He stays by the stream, he stays
Alone, and what must he be
Thinking, feeling in that
Eternal moment
That sparkling gleam
To which the whole orbit 
Of his years
Nature's years
Converged?

Jacob, Ya'aqov, deceiver 
Wanderer, Hebrew of Hebrews
Do you see his face daily
The face of your brother
The hairy man
The man's man
The son your father loved
Best?

He saw the figure on the other side
And it is nearly day
Dawn nearly shattering
Darkness-- Jacob 
Does not think to bow
Or weep or run or even
Kill but to 
Wrestle.

Jacob, for the first time in your
Life you must stand and fight:
No flight, no trickery
No mother to save you
You will live or die this
Day, this night of holy
Wholly relentless
Mystery.

He wrestles long, hard
Silently, silently
Groaning finally
His hip is out of joint. 
The man has hurt him badly--
Gasping, agony, pain beyond
Pain! He will not, cannot again
Run. 

Jacob, who is this stranger, this
Bearer of blessing, of pain?
Do you hate him? Is there anger
There, in your sweat and tangled
Limbs, the anger of the second son
The cast-out one? Is that why you're
Here-- avenging, bursting, let the 
Wrath spill over as you pin the angel
Down?

He grimly smiles as the stranger
Speaks: "Let me go, for day
Is breaking." But darksome still
The skies, still his heart-- and he
Won't! Won't let go, won't give
In, won't lie to himself, to the man
To the world. And with the cry of 
The anguish of the ages, replies:
"I won't let you go until you bless
Me."

Jacob, son of Isaac, son of Abraham
Who, too, knew our wild, craving
Untamed God, you too, will seek until
You find-- the blessing, the
Birthright, the promise, the Lord. 
Hail, you mighty warrior! Fiercer,
Bolder even than your brother, who
Strove with game, for you strive with
God.

He is incensed once more-- the stranger
Answers his demands with a 
Question, a boundless question: "What is your
Name?" Aching question of questions
Posed by daybreak, by burning nerve and
Pounding heart and sweating hands-- what
Is your name? Empty question, foolish
Mocking question, at once everything and
Nothing.

Jacob! Do you really know your name?
Or do you know visions and voices-- your
Soup on the fire, your father's dismissal, your
Ladder ascending, your father-in-law's demand?
Is it violent clarity, the terror of insanity
Rooting you to the ground before him
The stranger who so strangely asked your
Name?

He replied, in any case, "Jacob." And the 
Angel continued, without even a breath:
"You shall no longer be called Jacob but
Israel." Yisro'el, El, God! "For you have
Striven with God and prevailed." He tries on
The name for size, quietly feels its sound
Its newness, its foreverness, etched in him and in
Heaven. 

Israel, you are a new man, you will forever
Wonder about the stranger, the wrestling that
So strangely burst from your body. You will
Forever limp, forever feel it in your bones:
The darkness that renamed you. The God who
Claimed you. You might mourn your old 
Name, but you can never again cross that stream.
You wrestled with God and
Won.

He demands-- and it was surely a fair 
Demand-- "Please tell me your name."
And the stranger turned it around on 
Him: "Why is it you ask my name?" And
Then he blesses him, and he trembles and
Knows he could not have both blessings and
Answers. Questions are what named him, what
Brought him to Peniel, Penu'el, face of 
El. 

Israel, Israel, are you resigned or angry
Exhausted or enlivened, terrified or
At rest? Or all of it and more, gazing
Upward, as the sun prepares to rise
In your honor? For the world will speak
Your name with awe and fear, and nearly
Nearly worship you who bravely did not
Run from God but
Wrestled.

He goes forth, limping of course, and
Moved and bearing the hard-earned
Blessing, met his brother. The years
Disappear as they hug and kiss
And boldly, the mighty man whispers to
His older twin: "Accept my gift. God has 
Dealt graciously with me and I have
Everything I want." The wrestling match:
Everything.

Israel, did the hurt and anger between you
And your brother-- surely it was there, surely
There were fiery days for you-- Israel,
In the feverish fighting by dawn was it at
Least, for a moment: The face and voice of
Esau? And was that how, in the sun
In his arms, you gave and forgave and
Gave?

He is the father of the nation, brave man
Limping man, trickster, runaway, broken
Bruised beloved and blessed of God. Not
The nation of Jews only but every one who
Crosses the stream, alone, and strives with
God and with people in the dark and light.
And these, O Lord, are your people
Israel. 

A Postmodern Psalm

I ran across this microfiction piece by Sean Hill and knew it belonged in a sermon someday.  

Wondering if I am real. Am I just a character in a story? My past seems vague, my future limited. Please, if you made me, let me know. 

Letter to A Congregation Unknown, Loved

Letter to a congregation unknown, loved

Dearly beloved-- for that is what you are
The stuff of my dreams, my nightmares
Love is proportional to danger
Already you have captured my heart
Already, body and soul-- yours. 

I am not your hero.
I have no capes, no magic wands
No priestly robes, no powers of absolution
God loved you before I belonged to you
God will love you after I leave you.

I am not a bearded, biblical sage
Nor a dark, handsome man
A coddling, doting mother
I am younger than your carpet
Your conflicts, your wounds.

I am young enough to be your daughter
With tight jeans, an iPhone, and naiveté
But Joel says your daughters will prophesy
And I see visions of you, dancing 
Dying, rising, shining-- like Christ. 

The Point of Praise

A question skeptics ask religious people, a question many religious people have quietly asked, myself included: What is the point of praise? Doesn't God know God is great without us blabbering on about it? Wouldn't God, like any properly modest person, say to our hymns and, "Glad you like me, but hell, enough's enough!"
We forget about the majesty of God. In the midst of "Jesus is my boyfriend" culture and music-- (seriously, one Christian writer said we need to go on dates with Jesus and make sure to shave our legs for him because he deserves to see his princess all dolled up. Gross! I'm not shaving just for Jesus, that's for sure. And what, may I add, if you're a guy and not a metrosexual?!)-- we forget about John's vision:
 "I saw one like the Son of Man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash across his chest. His head and his hair were white as a white wool, white as snow; his eyes were like a flame a fire, his feet were like burnished bronze, refined as in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of many waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and from his mouth came a sharp, two-edged sword, and his face was like the sun shining with full force. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead" (Rev 1:13-17). 
God is not our imaginary friend. God is the living God infinitely beyond our comprehension. Praise and worship are one level an assent to the fact of God's greatness, a fact unchanged by our worship or lack thereof. 
But that helps us see the original question-- why does God care about our praise-- in a whole new light. Why, indeed? Why does the Master of the Universe-- to use the Jewish phrase, and Jews are so much better at this reverence thing than we are-- give a flying flip whether I worship him or not? I'm just a speck on the cosmic landscape. As the psalter says:
"When I look at the heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established: what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?" (Ps 8:3-4)
As a mother loves even a chicken-scratch, construction paper Mother's Day card, so God loves our worship. He cares about our worship because he cares about us. He wants us to praise him because he wants us-- and not in the Jesus is my boyfriend way, but in this way:
"By the mercies of God, present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship" (Rom 12:1). 
He doesn't want our unshaved legs, or even just a couple pretty hymns on Sunday. He wants all of us, and part of that surrendering ourselves over to God includes worshipping the God whose glory is beyond compare, whose love for us nailed his Son to the cross.
But event the fact of the question-- What's the point of praise?-- betrays our rugged, unholy American productivity. Everything has to have a purpose, a point. But relationships don't work that way. Relationships don't have a point, and worship certainly doesn't have a point. There are times to work hard for the kingdom, interceding boldly for others, asking God for help, and generally striving. But there are times to just praise God. As Scripture says: 
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places" (Eph 1:3).
The Jewish prayer formulation, "Blessed be God..." highlights the uselessness of praise. How can we bless the God who already gives us every blessing? But God wants us to bless him anyway. Because he loves us with the love that "surpasses knowledge" (Eph 3:19). 
Blessed, indeed, be God! 

What Song, Then?

One of many of Kathleen Norris' terrific poems. 

What Song, Then? 

When my life is alien soil

and a wind

like fear

makes restless ground

of all I have done—

what song, then,

to send out roots

that will drink the rain

that does not come—

how could I sing?

Watch light come

from dark and mist rise

from waters

as sky and shore

emerge out of night

and a tree half-green

half-bare.

Half-afraid of what is in me

(though God has called it good)

I sob over nothing,

desires I cannot name.

Sing us, they say,

a song you remember…

Thinking Theologically With A Four Year Old

If you want to really do some good practical theology, grab your favorite four year old. That's what I did over break. My sister, who is also my goddaughter, is four. And she and I did some good theology together.
"And a little child shall lead them" (Is 9:2). 
"Jessica, Jessica, will you read my Bible to me?" she asked with excitement, and ran and grabbed the white Beginner's Bible my parents gave me the Christmas after I turned five. It was the first Bible I ever had, and when I imagine Jesus sometimes I still think of that cartoon drawing-- Jesus wide-eyed and friendly, clad in royal purple, beautiful and alive.
We read about Adam and Eve, and my sister gasped after Eve took the fruit. "She shouldn't do that!" my sister exclaimed. 
When was the last time I gasped aloud at Scripture? 
"Truly, I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt 18:3)
We read the Nativity story, since Christmas was approaching. "And Gabriel, the angel..." I began. "What's an angel?" my sister interrupted me. I, the amateur theologian, was taken aback. "Well," I stammered, "they're like God's helpers."
When we got to the journey to Bethlehem, with the picture of Joseph walking and Mary on the camel, my sister asked why they weren't driving. "They didn't have cars back then," I said, smiling. "But Joseph's feet will hurt!" she said. 
Yes, surely they did. And I had never thought of it.
"I want to read more stories with girls in them," my sister whined as she flipped through the colorful children's Bible. There she is, I thought with fierce pride, my budding little feminist!
The night I got back, over rich lasagna and ice cold, expensive milk, my mother said the other day my sister was in my room and picked up one of my books and announced, "Jessica really likes God's word." 
Oh, my lovely sister, I pray I will become half of what I am in your eyes. 
On Christmas Eve, my sister joined me in my room as I wrapped Christmas gifts for other family members. I put on some Bing Crosby Christmas hymns-- don't judge; he should be required Christmas listening for everyone at any age. Anyway, bent over the wrap-- isn't wrapping gifts a horrible chore? shouldn't Gift Wrapping 101 be a college course?-- I murmured along with Bing, "Do you hear what I hear?"
"What?" my sister asked with exasperation. "What do you hear?"
What, indeed. That, too, a parable.
Another day, we are doing our makeup together. Don't worry; I don't actually apply makeup to my little princess. We just pretend-- although I suspect she really thinks she is getting a makeover. One of my favorite hymns is "Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus," and whenever she needs to stand up to let me tie her shoe or brush her hair or put on her jacket, I belt out, "Stand up, stand up for Jesus!" and she stands up! So as she stands up to dig through my makeup bag on the counter, she sings, "Stand up, stand up for Jesus! He sees you when you're sleeping; he knows when you're awake."
Grinning so broadly I disturbed my recently applied lipgloss, I asked my sister, "Who are you singing about?"
"Jesus!" she exclaimed, and continued to sing these lines loudly, proudly. May we all sing with my sister's exuberance and budding faith the glory of our God, who out of the mouths of babes ordained his praise. 
Another thing about my sister? Her middle name is Grace. 

I Am A Little Truck

I am a little truck
Blue, but many colors beneath
Filmy, dirty gray over top
A little androgynous
Compact, but not neat
Half turned in, half turned out
Slow and creaky with
New old noises.

I am faithful, mostly
But liable to slide
Liable to need a new this
New that; regularly serviced
And traveling, plodding-- on.