During the night Jacob rose and crossed the Jabbok River at the crossing, taking with him his two wives, his two slave girls, and his eleven sons. He sent his family and everything he had across the river. So Jacob was alone, and a man came and wrestled with him until the sun came up. When the man saw he could not defeat Jacob, he struck Jacob’s hip and put it out of joint. Then he said to Jacob, “Let me go. The sun is coming up.”
But Jacob said, “I will let you go if you will bless me.”
The man said to him, “What is your name?”
And he answered, “Jacob.”
Then the man said, “Your name will no longer be Jacob. Your name will now be Israel, because you have wrestled with God and with people, and you have won.”
Then Jacob asked him, “Please tell me your name.”
But the man said, “Why do you ask my name?” Then he blessed Jacob there.
So Jacob named that place Peniel, saying, “I have seen God face to face, but my life was saved.” Then the sun rose as he was leaving that place, and Jacob was limping because of his leg.
Your thirties are exhausting. Madeleine L’Engle calls it the tired thirties — and I agree, it isn’t for the faint of heart. The stakes are higher professionally, the expectations greater, and your kids are changing and growing every time you blink. Our kids are each over 30 pounds now, which wears on your elbows if you carry them too much — and I have definitely carried them too much, as my case of tennis toddler elbow confirms. If you get on your knees and play with the kids for a while and then get up — watch out. You will just have to limp along until you can feel your legs again.
The limp Jacob experienced after a night of wrestling with God, we can relate to from our lifetime of wrestling. We grab ahold and decide to not let go until something changes. Our hearts, our situation, our setting. Whether we grapple with God himself or the image of God in others — we never get out without a mark, a story, a limp.
Jesus tells us a similar story in the Gospel of Luke — of a woman who simply will not let her cry for justice go unanswered:
Then Jesus used this story to teach his followers that they should always pray and never lose hope. “In a certain town there was a judge who did not respect God or care about people. In that same town there was a widow who kept coming to this judge, saying, ‘Give me my rights against my enemy.’ For a while the judge refused to help her. But afterwards, he thought to himself, ‘Even though I don’t respect God or care about people, I will see that she gets her rights. Otherwise she will continue to bother me until I am worn out.’”
The Lord said, “Listen to what the unfair judge said. God will always give what is right to his people who cry to him night and day, and he will not be slow to answer them. I tell you, God will help his people quickly. But when the Son of Man comes again, will he find those on earth who believe in him?”
I’ve always thought about prayer as rooted in God’s love for us — some sort of fatherly desire for us to have good things. It seems like Jesus — Jacob’s story, too— is teaching another aspect of prayer. That maybe our persistence can somehow wear God down. At least get Him to reconsider. Or maybe the wrestling is the point. So that we will be changed in the process. Wrongs will be made right, but there will be a constant reminder in our bodies. An impact from the experience. Jacob ended up walking with a limp from justice delivered to him. I wonder what limp the woman earned from her answer to prayer? I wonder what ours will be.
When I turned 29, I finished a chapter of one of these wrestling and getting a limp from it seasons. Pastoral ministry marked most of the decade of my 20s with a lot of helping people, a lot of ego, and a lot of pouring myself out for the sake of a particular congregation. When I left at 29, I was exhausted — and I didn’t realize that the real ride of my life was about to begin. Leaving vocational ministry and letting my ministerial credentials go felt like an enormous decision. It felt like the end of an identity. I didn’t realize at the time that the title, the paper proof, the setting — those were just markers for a vocational thread that is woven through my life. I didn’t realize that piece of paper was only a receipt for a way that I had been walking for a long time. A limp that would never go away.
This week, Kelly and I took our kids to a park after one of their days at daycare. In between leaving the park and going to grab dinner at the local pizza place, we ran into the chief of police for our little town. He was out on patrol, but saw Declan was excited about his car, and kindly let him climb inside and power the lights on and off. While Declan was doing that, I said thank you to this officer for his service — for making our town a safer place for our kids and us to live. And I don’t know what it is, because this happens to me often, he began talking to me about all of the challenges he was going through in his role. From George Floyd, to the shortcomings of other police departments, to ways his department is working hard to constantly be of better service. The conversation went deep and quickly passed. A passing moment of grace in between the park and pizza. An affirmation and a handshake.
Whatever your limp is, I think it creates space for others to notice and connect. You don’t have to pretend it isn’t there — you can embrace it as a gift to the world. After all, it was given to you by your Creator.
Adam, I love seeing the Dude at the top of your blogs, and the metaphor of wrestling/limping. I was distracted by your gender use for God, wonder if you might consider using only the proper name, i.e., God or God-self. The longer I have wrestled and limped, the more I prefer no gender assigned to the hugeness of God.