When will this dust finally settle? The man in motion, juking-and-jiving Jacob, must want some settling down by now. From birth, he’s been living by the credo: if you don’t get your hands slapped every once in a while, you’re not reaching far enough. Jacob is red-handed by now. And he’s kicked up more than his fair share of dust along the paths of Palestine. Seven chapters into his life and times, surely the guy would be glad to mosey off into the sunset. But he’s kicked up too much dust in his gusto for go-aheads. He is a biblical version of Charlie Brown’s untidy pal, Pig Pen. Everywhere Jacob goes a dust cloud is sure to follow.

Before this title bout begins, though, we have the calm before the storm. After all the motion and commotion, Jacob winds down. We catch Jacob in the "in between." Still on the move from the conflict with his brother, Jacob is finally not running away. He is on his way, as this chapter begins, to meet his big hairy brother Esau. Jacob—much more slowly than so many times before—travels to reconcile with his brother. God has been the God of the running renegade. God will also be the God of the one who stands to face the music. Yet Jacob, that petulant little brother, is scared. He’s just made these elaborate plans to buy off Esau’s anger. Three groupings of gifts are strategically sent ahead of him. Goats, bulls, donkeys are his offer to soften Esau’s anger. Then, two wives, two maids and a mess of children are his hope for a sympathy vote: a sort of “you wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses, would ya?” From Gen. 25 to 35 in the whole of his story, Jacob is a conniver. I believe the right name for him is schmuck. George labeled Jacob a few Sundays ago: He is a schmuck, but Jacob is God’s schmuck. Now, he is a frightened schmuck. It’s 3:00 in the school yard and someone’s due for a whipping. Nice to see him squirm, you know? He is used to exerting himself, but now we see him demure, sedate, grave…for a moment.

Our story begins in isolation—Jacob’s all alone. As soon as he takes a deep breath from the day’s worth of crossing back and forth over the Jabbok River, oh how the dust flies. Jacob is blindsided. As for God…well, who knows what God is up to in the nighttime? God, Jacob’s one-time dream weaver, is such a lover of the graveyard shift. Jacob faces a surprise attack by a moonlighting God (as if God’s day job isn’t enough?). Being sucker punched by God has got to hurt. Here by the Jabbok mystery and reality come crashing together against Jacob. He doesn’t know, at first, who his attacker is. The narrative seems disinterested in being explicit. It is opaque, and that only enhances the ominous feel.

This means that all options are initially open in the fight with the God-man. Jacob and this mysterious man fight all night. God’s power seems to come at least in part from his hiddeness. When Jacob is introduced into God’s plan a few chapters back, I want to poke fun. He seems so soft, so milquetoast, so unlike his big manly brother. But, how he’s grown. He tussles with God and holds his own. So, with the sun about to puncture the pitch covering of this nightclub and fight club, something—someone—has to give. This hidden one has the strength to hurt Jacob, yet he does not defeat him. We see that the God-man has his own vulnerability. When the hidden one realizes his particular ambiguity is about to be seen, he wants to dash off. Why must he leave? Will he lose his power, vampire like, at first light? Or, is it because he must hold on to his hiddeness? Whatever the need, Jacob and his sparring partner come as close to a draw as you can possibly want. Neither fighter, sweaty and aching, heaving and wearied, can gain the upper hand. What does this tell us about God as all-powerful? A God who is pressed to a tie with one from his own creation…? What about Jacob—what kind of man is our forefather to match this man power for power? Well, this is no ordinary man. This is no ordinary God.[1]

When the dust had settled, there were these two guys and one baseball. The 73^rd home run from Barry Bonds last season was monumental—a record-breaking shot just past the work of Mark McGwire who is forever stuck at 72. Alexander Popov and Patrick Hayashi parked themselves in the rightfield arcade walkway of San Francisco’s Pac Bell Park one early-October afternoon. These complete strangers along with hundreds of others waited in want of this bit of baseball fame—one baseball, specifically marked, worth millions. First inning, 3-2 pitch from the Dodger’s pitcher, a knuckleball: Bonds lifts the ball to the clouds. 5.7 seconds later this magical baseball lands. The melee ensues—bodies diving, elbows and knees knocking each other—everyone wrestling for #73. Popov formed the bottom layer of the pile. He was certain he had it in his glove. He felt it! When he was unearthed, there were some bruises, some scrapes. No baseball. Beside him lay Hayashi, who squirmed up and through the struggle, with #73 in his jacket pocket. I guess that all sorts of things wonderful and wacky things can happen in a wrestling match. About a year later now, the fight goes on. Suit and counter suit. I had it, he took it…both want it. For now, this miraculous little piece of rawhide sits in a Milpitas, California bank vault.[2] So, who will let go first? Is all the contention worth it?

Now substitute that magical ball for a mysterious blessing. And, I wonder: what is life with God supposed to be like? Where does all this kicking-up-the-dust get us anyway? For Jacob in his match with God it means everything—his history and his destiny. In this struggle, at first, Jacob is the stronger one. Exploiting the situation, (who Jacob?!) he seeks a blessing. As long as Jacob’s got the line, God won’t be the one that got away. You see: the fun is in the fishing, not the catching. Jacob holds on, and promises: I’m not letting you go, at least not until you bless me. He’s met with silence. Now, the stranger turns the table. He is stronger and asserts that very fact with his question: Okay, what’s your name? Jacob offers his handle; he speaks his own name. The Ancient Near East custom indicates that by disclosing his name, Jacob is revealing his very character. A name and a disposition—the two go hand in hand. That in a nutshell is why I wouldn’t name my son Chris. Hey, it’s a great name, sure, sure. It’s just that I had a run-in with a Chris back in high school. Now, Chris and jerk go hand-in-hand. Jacob asked for a blessing; he gets a new identity. Assaulted by God, this heel-holding, supplanting, tricky-over-reacher, no longer has to live out what his name means. Now Jacob is given a new identity.

Forging an identity of our own is fairly easy; a lot like pretending. I mean grab a pair of really tight pants with a provocatively placed tattoo highlighted by even more provocative dance moves—bada bing, bada boom—Madonna…Jennifer Lopez. But an identity that is our own and God’s: that is another matter entirely—a matter that will not arise until we are ready for some contending. Jacob not any more. Call him Israel. Whether that means “God protects” or “one who struggles with God” or “God fights,” we are not to be sure. But any way we say it, it sounds the same: A new identity is being called out.[3] Jacob, by way of Israel, is a new factor for the world. Power between God and humanity has shifted. Israel encounters God: I have seen God face-to-face and live to tell about it.

When the dust settles, such new things have come. The relationship with God is available in one radically different way: A blessing of identity gives such empowerment. Silently, God has blessed the contender. Jacob we now call Israel. And, God gets to be God; mystery maintained. Though the God-man lost the battle that does not mean that he’ll lose the war. God responds to Israel’s question of his name (his being) with a question: Why is this that you ask my name? This suggests that God knows well the form of faith—it is comprised of so many questions, but precious few straight answers. This does not mean that God is somehow unscathed in the scuffle. God puts God’s self at risk in the altercation. After all, some of us will remain indifferent to this goading God who’ll come crashing into our world. Some of us prefer the safety of pretension to the peril of contention. We’d rather have the tidy Lord neatly tucked in the four corners of the heavens than an unkempt God who’s in our face and pulling us to our knees. But, God is at work and in precarious ways God will simply change us. For Jacob that means a sharp pain—a hip dislocated. God is also at work affecting Jacob. So for Jacob that also means a new name—an identity located. Then Israel exits—off to a more manageable bout where things with Esau are tidied, reconciled by kiss and make-up. But he leaves limping; limping but leaning as he fades into the sunrise. And in his tracks, there’s more dust, kicked up as he passes the Face of God (Peniel).

Laura Leiber, a friend and incredibly helpful tutor to me during my studies at Hebrew Union College, would tell me stories about her family dinners. Dinners at the Leiber home she said were not for the faint of heart or the slow of mouth. Light discussion. A nice quiet meal. Hah! That was for ninnies. Relating with the family meant real talk, frank opinion and stiff commentary. You saddle up to the plate, you better strap on the helmet. Family relations, the model for our fellowship in the house of God, are invitations to real relating. Real relating requires a full-bodied experience with others. Sometimes that means good cheer to go along with the warm rolls. And sometimes that means two mouthfuls of strife and contention with one nibble of pot roast. Laura’s description reminds me how dynamic family-dynamics can be, even should be. At the table, the only thing that is not to be tolerated is indifference. You taste the joy of your mother’s promotion with the sadness of your brother’s C in Algebra. And, you talk, interact, encounter. You spar long enough and you’ll eventually see hair come down and gloves come off. Some gladness, some anger. Real encounters begin. It’s risky.

For those of us here who are on the brink of running away—running from the promises because there has not been fulfillment, running from all the praying because nobody is listening—well this story is for you and me. What will happen when we dare to stand and strive with God? We’re bound not to lose. And yet, we won’t win. There is struggle with God. You see: faith is in the fighting. God puts himself in such dicey situations—provoking belief or disbelief. Israel is a contender, empowered in the struggle. Like Israel, we are invited to hold on in order to hobble along. Who knows what God is up to in the nighttime of our lives? When it is dark and we are most alone, God is busy—blessing us by wrestling us and wrestling us by blessing us. We hobble on, touched sharply by the strong hand of grace. It will hurt us. Such is the nature of changes so dramatic. From here, the way I see it: this God will stagger back home with grass stains on the knees of his britches. He’ll have to rinse his raspberries with some peroxide. He’ll bandage up, then briefly catch his breath. Then, zoom! Out the door he goes again. This nocturnal one uses stealth and strength, picking fights to turn pretenders into contenders.

And, when the dust settles, we find that we’re gathered around a table—a table not at all unlike this. All of us invited to be here by the God who marks us with his powerful grace or gracious power. Either way, the mark will show. Some of us have limped to be here, while others have crawled. We sit at this table because God strives so that we will strive. Dust gets kicked up, but there’s faith in this fray—a blessing, a new name. So, here’s to dust that won’t settle, not just yet. For in this dust we see the very face of God. Amen.

[1] Walter Brueggeman, Genesis, (Atlanta: John Knox, 1982) 266-69.  
[2] Gary Smith, “The Ball,” in Sports Illustrated (7/29/02) 97:4, 63-79.
[3] Brueggemann, 268