Broken for Good

Genesis 32:22-28

December 4, 2022 • Mount Pleasant UMC

Most everyone has one. When you heard the song, “We Don’t Talk About Bruno,” you changed “Bruno” to the name of your own strange, eccentric relative, didn’t you? Most of us have that family member who riles people up, the one you hope you don’t have to sit next to at Christmas dinner. It’s the one that, no matter what you say, they will disagree, and on social media they’re always arguing with someone. You know the one, right? Most every family has someone we wish we could disown.

But that’s exactly the problem: we can’t. Family is family, and we’re stuck with them whether we like it or not. Dan Wilt describes family in this way: “…that strange mix of people we call mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great grandparents, and even non-family members who aren’t blood related to us—but feel as though they could be” (Roots, pg. xi). And every family is a mix of good and bad, strong and weak, strange and something close to normal, fun and boring, and all the other adjectives you might want to drop in here. And, by the way, if you can’t think of the one who people don’t want to be around, it might be you. Just saying.

This Advent, as we prepare to celebrate Christmas, we’re exploring the “roots" of Jesus, the people, place and story that the savior of the world came in the midst of. He did not show up outside of history; he was born in a manger in a particular place, in a particular time, into a particular family. He was part of a people, a people whose history went back a long, long way. As I mentioned last week, Matthew (at the beginning of his Gospel) gives us insight into that family which included all sorts of people: a prostitute, a widow, an adulterer, liars, cheats, and some good people, too. Because, as I also said last week, we often skip over their names, I thought you might enjoy hearing those “begats” in a different way. Take a listen.

Still one of my all-time favorite Christmas songs! A lot of time is spent this time of year focusing on Mary and Joseph, but perhaps you heard in the song or you’ve read in the genealogy that Joseph’s dad was named Jacob. He was likely named for one of the patriarchs of their faith and their people, another man named Jacob, who started out…well, let’s just say he wasn’t someone that mothers and fathers pointed to and encouraged their children to “Be like Jacob.” His name, in fact, gives us a clue as to what he was like. He was a twin, and since he came out of the womb grabbing onto his brother’s heel, they named him “Heel Grabber.” That’s what “Jacob” meant, or it could also mean “Deceiver” (Genesis 25:26, footnote). Let’s just say Jacob did everything he could to live up to that name. He tricked his brother out of his birthright, out of his father’s blessing, and then he went on to trick his father-in-law out of a fortune. He was a taker, a manipulator, someone who was always out to get his own way no matter who got hurt.

Yes, Jacob lived up to his name, and after many years of living far away from home, he decides to take his fortune, his two wives and his family and go back to the place he had grown up. And while he is on the way, he learns that his brother Esau (whom he cheated not once but twice) is on the way to meet him—with four hundred men. This isn’t shaping up to be a friendly family reunion. Easu is armed for war (cf. Goldingay, Genesis for Everyone: Part Two, pg. 114), or so it seems to Jacob. So watch what Jacob does: he sends “messengers” (likely servants) ahead of him to try to placate Esau. How’d you like to be in the front of that group? Sure, there’s an army coming toward you—how about you go and try to head them off (cf. Goldingay 114)? Then Jacob divides his people into two groups, apparently thinking that if one group is attacked the other can get away. In other words, he’s willing to sacrifice at least half of his entourage in order to protect himself. And then he isolates himself on the other side of the Jabbok River. Everyone in his entourage is between himself and Esau; Jacob is all about protecting himself, not the others. So he does all that, and then…he prays. After he thinks he has taken care of everything himself, he prays. After he thinks he has done all he can do, he prays (cf. Goldingay 114).

Now, we may scoff at Jacob, but how often do we do the same thing? I do that, probably more often than I know. It’s far too easy to get out ahead of God and rather than asking for his guidance first, I do everything I can and when I’m out of steam, then I think, “Oh, maybe I should pray.” I don’t know if it’s because we think we don’t want to “bother” God with things we can take care of ourselves (or think we can) or if it just never crosses our mind to pray first. What if we listened to the wisdom of the Apostle Paul? “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.” Which situations? Some? A few? Nope. Every situation, Paul says, and look what is promised when we do that: “And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6-7). I wonder how many sleepless nights we could avoid if we prayed first? I wonder if Jacob could have avoided his own painful sleepless night?

While he’s in the camp, a stranger attacks Jacob in the dark. The Jabbok, at least in today’s world, is not a very big river, so I have to wonder if his people on the other side of the river heard the struggle, or were they further away or perhaps asleep enough that they completely missed the wrestling match that happens there on the shores by the water. Because it’s night, it’s dark (no street lamps) and so Jacob can’t see who is fighting him. Maybe it’s one of Esau’s men, or someone who came from his father-in-law’s home, or any number of people he had tricked through the years (cf. Ross, “Genesis,” Cornerstone Biblical Commentary, Vol. 1, pg. 191). At this moment he has to wonder if his past has finally caught up with him. And yet Jacob won’t give up. We’re told they wrestled all night (32:24), which had to be exhausting for Jacob and but he is determined to not give up until he has won. Wrestling is not so much an attacking sport as it is “exerting resistance against an opponent,” until one or the other ends up in a supreme position. On this night, on the shores of the river, neither one will submit, neither one will give up, and when daybreak comes, Jacob finally speaks: “I will not let you go unless you bless me” (32:26).

From the point of view of a reader, we know the one who is wrestling with Jacob is God, even if Jacob is still unclear who it is until the end. So why does God, who knows all things, ask Jacob what his name is? I mean, doesn’t God already know Jacob’s name? It’s the same sort of thing as when Adam and Eve are hiding in the Garden of Eden and God asks where they are (cf. Genesis 3:9). God knows, right? Yes, of course God knows Jacob’s name (yours, too), but God waits for us to come to him, to open ourselves to him. When Jacob tells God his name, he’s actually confessing his nature, his way of doing things. “What is your name?” My name is Deceiver. My name is Heel Grabber. And when God asks us, “What is your name?” how do you respond? My name is Cheater. My name is Liar. My name is Unfaithful. My name is Lonely, Unforgiven, Regret, Defeated. We so often take the name of our weakness and understand that as our full identity. What is your name? Jacob confesses who he is before God, and God changes his name. He is going to have to become someone else, understand himself differently, if God is going to bless him (cf. Ross 191).

There’s something else that happens to Jacob there on the shore of the Jabbok River, something else that has to happen before he can be blessed. In verse 25, we’re told that the man (God) saw he couldn’t overpower Jacob (which really means Jacob wasn’t going to surrender, wasn’t going to give up), so he wrenched Jacob’s hip. Wait a minute—did God cheat in the wrestling match? Or did God give Jacob a gift, something that would define him (and those who came after him) for the rest of his life? For every moment after this, Jacob would not walk tall and proud on his own. Every time he took a step, he would remember this night, and he would remember that he’s not supposed to do it all on his own. In the wrestling match, in the wrenching of his hip, God got Jacob’s attention and called him back to himself. You could say that on this night by the river, Jacob was broken. But he was broken for good.

And that’s why God gives him a new name. He will no longer be known as Heel Grabber. No one is to call him Deceiver any longer. Jacob will now be known as Israel. God says Jacob is given this name because “you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome” (32:28). A lot of your Bibles will have a footnote indicating that the name “Israel” means “he struggles with God,” but the more literal translation of the name is simply, “God fights” (Ross 191). Jacob has spent his life trying to grab God’s blessing and win fights in his own strength. His new name would remind him every day that he could not win and could not be blessed by God unless he let God fight for him. The whole nation that eventually would emerge out of his family would claim this name as well; in fact, the new nation that was set up as a homeland for the Jewish people in 1948 claims that name still. Israel—God fights. And so the people are forever reminded that they will not be blessed unless they let God fight for them. It make me think of what the prophet Zechariah said to King Zerubbabel: “‘Not by might nor by power, but by my Spirit,’ says the Lord Almighty” (Zechariah 4:6). Israel: God will fight for you.

This is the nation Jesus was born into. This is his people. A wounded people, marked by God, who had to learn (very often the hard way) that the only way they could win anything is if they let God fight for them. We often have to learn that same lesson the hard way as well. Jesus was born into a world that desperately needed the peace that only he can bring, and yet over and over again the good, solid religious people he encountered resisted and rejected his message. They thought they could do it themselves. If they followed the law, if they did all the right things, if they lived up to their own impossible standards and forced everyone else to do the same, then they would be good with God. And then Jesus came, born in a manger in a backwater town that no one thought much of. He grew up in poverty in a town that wasn’t even included on first century maps. And then he did the unthinkable. The Prince of Peace was supposed to secure that peace by kicking out the Romans and taking over the throne in Jerusalem. But Jesus’ throne did not look anything like what people expected. Jesus’ throne was a cross. Jesus, God incarnate, lived out the promise of his people Israel. He fought for the salvation of his people by giving his life on the cross. What the people—what you and I—could not do on our own, Jesus did for us.

In one of his books, Max Lucado makes this comparison. He writes, “Suppose God simplified matters and reduced the Bible to one command: ‘Thou must jump so high in the air that you touch the moon.’ No need to love your neighbor or pray or follow Jesus; just touch the moon by virtue of a jump, and you’ll be saved. We’d never make it. There maybe a few who jump three or four feet, even fewer who jump five or six; but compared to the distance we have to go, no one gets very far. Though you may jump six inches higher than I do, it’s scarcely reason to boast” (In the Grip of Grace, pg. 39). And yet we try, don’t we? We try to do it on our own. We try to figure out how much we have to do in order to get into God’s good graces. How many times a month do we have to attend worship? How many service projects do we have to do? If I am nice to the grumpy check-out person, will that help? If I’m just better behaved than my neighbor, won’t that get me in (or at least further up in the line)? We want a way, a simple way, that we can measure and know that we’re “in.” That’s why we like to define “holiness” with all these external behaviors, things we can see and measure. But God reminds us that Jesus came from a people called Israel. God fights for you. Jesus gave his life for you. There is nothing you can do to earn it. There is nothing you can do that will make God love you more than he does right now, and there is nothing you can do that will make him love you less. There is no action we can do, no list we can accomplish, no project we can present that will save us. You only need to let God fight for you and let the baby of Bethlehem save you.

A few centuries after Jacob, the people who were becoming known as Israel found themselves in captivity in Egypt. It didn’t really matter how they had gotten there; they just wanted out. And then someone remembered, maybe, what the name of their people meant and they cried out to God, asking for God’s help. So God sent Moses, and Moses led them out of slavery. But then there is that awesome scene where they find themselves trapped between the sea that seems uncrossable and the army that seems undefeatable. The Egyptian army is closing in and there’s nowhere to go, so the people start complaining to Moses. “Was it because there were no graves in Egypt that you brought us to the desert to die?” (Exodus 14:11). That question makes me chuckle, especially in light of Moses’ response. Moses simply reminds them who they are. He says, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still” (Exodus 14:13-14). In other words—don’t do something, just stand there. Remember who you are. You are Israel. God fights for you.

Fast forward a few more centuries and you find a group of thirteen men in an upper room. Twelve of them have no idea what is coming the next day. They think they have just gathered (as they did every year) to remember Moses and their people’s escape from slavery. But Jesus uses this night, this Passover celebration, to not only remind them who they are and where they have come from, but also to point forward toward who they will become. As he broke the bread and passed the cup, Jesus told his disciples that they should do this same thing often, and do it in remembrance of him (cf. 1 Corinthians 15:23-25). And he also told them, in words repeated in three of the Gospels, that he himself would not eat this meal or drink this cup again until he could celebrate it “until the kingdom of God comes” (cf. Luke 22:16, 18). The bread, broken for good. The grapes, crushed for good.

Even before the pandemic made us oh-so-conscious of the various ways we transmit germs, you might remember that I make a practice of always handing you the bread. I don’t know if you realize but I do that for a theological reason even more than a health reason, and it has to do with the reality of grace. It’s because salvation is a gift. God fighting for Jacob, for the Hebrews, for all of us—that’s a gift. Grace is not something we grab onto, like Jacob wanted to do. Grace is something we receive, like those disciples did in the Upper Room. Jesus offered, and they received. We don’t demand or grab God’s grace; we receive. And so, this morning, people for whom God fights, I invite you to the table to receive all that God has for you. Jesus, the Prince of Peace, comes from a people who had to learn to receive all that he had come to give. And the gift continues even today in this bread and this cup. So come, receive, and be grateful that God fights for you. Will you pray with me as we prepare to receive the sacrament of Holy Communion?