Wrestling
Commentary
We all love stories of courage among those who wrestle with daunting difficulties in life and actually pull out a win:
* Francis Parkman suffered from both arthritic muscles and poor eyesight. He could work only five minutes at a time, scrawling huge letters on his manuscript, yet he managed to complete a massive twenty-volume historical masterpiece.
* Thomas Edison labored virtually non-stop in his attempts to find a way to develop two-way transmissions on a single telephone line. Suffering from exhaustion, he was ready to give up. Yet, persistence won out and on the twenty-second day he found a solution that gave birth to modern telephone communication.
* Michael Blake left home at seventeen to make his mark in the literary and cinematic world. He wrote more than twenty screenplays and numerous other stories and novels, but received only rejection slips for 25 years. Then, finally, the whole world shouted his praise when his Dances with Wolves told a tale everyone needed to hear.
It is always wonderful when perseverance wins out over huge odds: Former secretary of state, Henry Kissinger, made more than twenty secret trips to China before he was at last able to open new diplomatic ties between East and West; Colonial Sanders met rejection 112 times as he pitched his fried chicken recipe until finally selling his first franchise; Joe Wilson spent ten years attempting to make ink stick to paper and then one day stumbled on the secret that turned "Xerox" into a household name.
Those stories are inspiring, aren't they? Maybe so, in retrospect. Still, I have to confess it is hard for me to get motivated by the end results of successful ventures when there is no guarantee that the outcome will be the same for me. In my career as pastor, I have seen too much of failure even among those most full of faith and confidence to jump blithely into a "Pollyanna" mode. I watched a young couple bury three newborn sons in three successive years on foreign soil, far from family, in spite of the best efforts of medical science. I've heard the desperate cries of women who cannot get over the horrible pain of what fathers did to them in the secrecy of childhood bedrooms. I've seen robust faith degenerate through years of setbacks and loss.
Elaine Pagels, in retelling the story of a particular sect of early Christians, says, "History is told by the winners." There is a lot of truth in that. Who remembers the losers? Who keeps tabs on the has-beens? Who records the disasters of those who fade away under pressure or disaster?
History is told by the winners, and losers, even those who began with confidence and enthusiasm, are swallowed by the margins and forgotten. Even their tears are forgotten.
Today's lectionary passages are, in large part, stories of courage and wrestling and fighting and winning and losing. Jacob wrestles with his brother, with a divine intruder, with himself, and with God. In the end we are not quite sure who wins and who loses, but we do gain some transferable spiritual insights. Paul wrestles with his people, the nation of Israel, and his heart is torn by both winners and losers in the conflict. Jesus wrestles with the daily demons that consume our cares, and at the same time he wrestles with the commitments of our hearts. It is in Jesus' wrestling that we come to know the fullest extent of God's love for us, because God is wrestling, too -- wrestling to restore in us that which other fighters have taken away from us on the mats of life.
Genesis 32:22-31
There are a number of little things to pay attention to when approaching this passage. First, it portrays Jacob more as a coward than a devoted prayer warrior. Note that the passage does not indicate that Jacob took up his unusual post in order to pray. Rather, we are only told that he sent everyone on ahead of himself when faced with Esau's armed approach. In other words, Jacob put his family, his wives, his servants, his cattle, and his children between himself and his brother's likely attack. The others served as a buffer and as an early warning alarm system for Jacob -- when he heard the cries of the babies, he could still escape into the night and save his own skin.
Second, the events of Jacob wrestling with the divine messenger are surrealistic and are meant to convey meaning to Israel. This is not merely a nice campfire story that made for good entertainment; it was intended to live on as a didactic declaration of the origins of Israel's identity as distilled into its national name.
For that reason it is important, again, to see that within the book of Genesis there are four major story cycles: the story of Origins (chs. 1-11), the story of Abraham (chs. 12-25), the story of Jacob (chs. 26-36), and the story of Joseph (chs. 37-50). Included within each of these there are many other little stories like the one we read today. But it is important to read each little story within the context of the larger story cycle in which it is found. For the nation of Israel, receiving the covenant at Mount Sinai (Exodus 20-24), each of these story cycles in Genesis asked and answered a fundamental question of identity:
* Origins story cycle (chs. 1-11): Why is God making this covenant with us? Because this world is the creation and kingdom of God, and it is in civil war against God.
* Abraham story cycle (chs. 12-25): Who are we that God should come to us with this covenant? We are the descendents of the chosen son of Abraham, through whom the covenant was originated.
* Jacob story cycle (chs. 26-36): What is our character? We are tricksters and con artists like our father Jacob, but we are also "Israel" like him -- those who wrestle with God.
* Joseph story cycle (chs. 37-50): But why were we in Egypt rather than in the land of God's promise to Abraham? Because of a famine and Joseph's protective care.
With this in mind, several things become more apparent about the story in today's lectionary reading. First, this story should not be preached in order to answer logistical details: was it an angel or the second person of the Trinity that came to Jacob? Why was there no clear winner to the conflict? Does the dietary regulation continue in modern Judaism? Questions such as these miss the point: Jacob was a self-made man who created his own fortunes; he needed to learn that God is the author of destinies, and blessing is not the accumulation of goods or safety but a covenant walk with the Creator.
Second, the names in this passage are important. "Jacob" is the term for one who craftily maneuvers things to his own advantage. "Peniel" literally means "face of God," and is intended to declare an encounter with the divine that would scare one to death if it did not bring life. "Israel" means "he struggles with God." This becomes the new name of the old, crafty self-promoter. It also signifies the character of the nation that stands before God at Mount Sinai, ready to receive a new identity for a new spiritual journey.
Generations ago the English poet, George Herbert, penned a brilliant picture of the near-phantom connection that links us to God. In "The Pulley" he portrayed God at the moment of creation, sprinkling this new human creature with treasures kept in a jar. These were God's finest resources, given now as gifts to the crowning race of the universe: beauty, wisdom, honor, pleasure.... All were scattered liberally in the genetic recipe of our kind.
When the jar of God's treasures was nearly empty, God put the lid on it. The angels wondered why God did not finish the human concoction, having left one great resource still in its container. This last quality, God told the angels, is "rest." But God would not grant that divine treasure to the human race. The angels, of course, asked why. Herbert was ready with the divine answer regarding the best mix for the human spirit:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.
Herbert saw well that the strong talents and marvelous abilities of humankind would make us like impatient children, eager to strike out on our own and find our self-made destinies. Only if God would hold back a sense of full satisfaction from our souls would we search our way back home. James expresses the same idea in what remains a perennial theological paradox: it is the Law of God that gives freedom. When we use our abilities for our own ends we tend to destroy what is best in ourselves and others. When, however, we are restless to find the face of God in the divine law's mirror we find a glimpse of our own best faces reflected back toward us in God's smile.
George Matheson, the blind hymn writer, gave the same prayer to the church when he wrote:
Make me a captive, Lord, and then I shall be free.
Force me to render up my sword and I shall conqueror be.
I sink in life's alarms when by myself I stand;
Imprison me within Thine arms and strong shall be my hand.
My will is not my own 'til Thou hast made it Thine.
If it would reach a monarch's throne it must its crown resign.
I only stand unbent amid the clashing strife
When on Thy bosom I have leaned and found in Thee my life.
Romans 9:1-5
Romans 9-11 form a kind of "aside" or "excursus" in the otherwise rather direct flow of Paul's theological argument. In large outline the letter of Paul to the Romans can be summarized as sin (chs. 1-3), salvation (chs. 4-11), and service (chs. 12-16). The plight of humanity (chs. 1-3) calls out the redemptive care of God (chs. 4-8) which creates a new consciousness of what it means to be in God's family (chs. 12-16). Here in Romans 9, Paul wrestles with a topic that emerges out of the confidence of chapter 8. In that chapter Paul crescendos to a climax that guarantees the power of God to overcome any and all threats to our relationship with the divine.
Suddenly, however, it is as if Paul recognizes a flaw in this line of thinking. If God was so powerful that none could be lost to God's care, why is the remnant of Israel so disconnected from the Messianic revelation and salvation in Jesus? How can one have confidence that God's care will see you through if you also acknowledge that most of God's declared special people don't seem to be part of the divine family today?
The argument Paul puts forward in chapters 9-11 is a knotty one, challenging even students of jurisprudence with its convoluted meanderings and sub-points turning points of view back on themselves. But these opening lines are not at all ambiguous. Paul is wrestling. He is wrestling in his own heart to find an answer to the eternal conundrum encompassing divine initiative and human responsibility. He is fighting with a good religion in order to give expression to a better theodicy. He is tangling with the webs woven by the mystery of Creator sovereignty and creature weakness.
A message drawing on the anguish (v. 2) of this passage needs to be a message of anguish: why is the right so intertwined with the wrong? Why is the road to despair often paved with good intentions? Why does religion often devolve into mere morality? How does ritual feed on spiritual romance and rob it of passion?
Above all, this passage must not be used to promote any kind of anti-Semitism. Paul is not antagonistic toward those of his race, nor does he encourage anything of the kind. To miss the anguish of this passage is to belittle Paul's love for his spiritual family. Paul wrestles with difficult concerns, and we ought not make light of them by theologizing them away.
Matthew 14:13-21
To catch the full impact of these verses we need to understand two things. First, the Gospel of Matthew presents Jesus as king. He is identified as a royal scion of David in chapter 1, recognized as international king in chapter 2, declares the contours of the kingdom in chapter 13, assumes a right to the kingly palace in chapter 21, and declares his royal rule in chapter 28. Throughout the gospel, Jesus is the king -- sometimes cloaked and sometimes evident, but always ruling.
Second, here in chapter 14, the gospel writer appears to have set up a deliberate contrast (see vv. 12-13) between royalty as expressed through Herod (vv. 1-12) and that depicted by Jesus (vv. 13-36). Herod is superstitious; Jesus is deeply spiritual. Herod is driven by fear; Jesus is moved by compassion. Herod resents people; Jesus cares for people. Herod throws parties for the wealthy; Jesus makes feasts for the poor. Herod's soldiers hurt people; Jesus' disciples help people. Herod bows to the authority of sinful humans; Jesus bows to the authority of divine goodness.
The miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and fish is awesome, but it is not a stand-alone, attention-grabbing sideshow. It is an expression of the divine royal character of Jesus, and the values of his kingdom. While Herod wrestles with power and privilege to protect himself behind guarded walls, Jesus wrestles with weakness and poverty to restore dignity to humanity living out in the unsheltered open spaces. Herod demands and those around him die; Jesus gives and those around him find life and livelihood.
Application
I'm reminded, when writing about all these instances of struggle, of the scene Norman Vincent Peale once described. A young woman stared in disbelief as the Queen of England, Elizabeth II, approached her in open sight of thousands of people and hundreds of television cameras, and crowned her tennis champion of the world. It was the culmination of a powerful story of perseverance, since young Althea Gibson was born in poverty and suffered crushing childhood illnesses that left her muscles weak and her limbs twisted.
It was the perseverance of Althea's mother that made the difference. Mrs. Gibson one day pointed to a rock across the yard and asked her daughter, "Do you see that stone down there by the barn?" The girl did. It was huge, Althea remembered, and looked like an overgrown potato. "I want you to go down there and bring it up to the house," said her mother, "so we can use it as a step by the kitchen door."
The girl sobbed and protested. "Mommy!" she lamented, "I'm so weak that I can hardly even walk down there! How can I possibly move a stone that big?"
Her mother persisted, and simply said, "You can do it! I have confidence in you! You'll figure something out."
Indeed, inch by inch, rolling and tugging and pushing, the young lass moved that rock to the house. It took her two months to do what a healthy child would have accomplished in fifteen minutes. But as she tussled with the stone Althea's muscles strengthened and her limbs straightened. Surprised by her new energy, she began a rigorous training program that led to tennis and ultimately to Wimbledon. It was there that the Queen of England crowned Althea Gibson victor before an awestruck world.
When I first read Althea's story I had the same initial diffidence that other "success" stories often bring. But there was something in Althea's response both to her struggles and to their outcome that wrinkled with less tinsel. In Althea's view, the story revolved not around her own ability to see things through, but rather focused on her mother's "constant faithfulness and abiding love," to use a term pirated from a marriage ceremony. Perseverance was, for her, not so much the confidence of winning at Wimbledon or inventing something new or succeeding in business. Rather, it was being able to count on a relationship that would never let her down, even if she did not accomplish great things. The success was in being worthy of significance because she was loved, and not becoming worthy of love because she achieved some kind of "success."
Similarly for those who struggle and wrestle in today's passages. Perhaps we will be fortunate enough to celebrate our dreams come true. Yet whether we win or lose in life, faith's perseverance reminds us that God will always be there for us. That's reward enough for both time and eternity.
An Alternative Application
The story of Jacob is too powerful to merely be made one among many "illustrations." It is a grand teaching itself. If one uses the method of David Buttrick and assesses the moves of the text, it seems to flow somewhat in this manner: 1) Jacob wrestles with himself about how he will face Esau; 2) Jacob wrestles with God to find divine protection; 3) God wrestles with Jacob to help Jacob truly see and know himself and his need; 4) God wrestles with us in the same manner (hence the passing along of the name "Israel" -- see also Galatians 6:16) because 5) we also wrestle with ourselves. The over-arching theme of this passage, however, is that God will not let us go. This is both a threat to the selfish selves within us that do not want any gods apart from our own conniving minds, and a promise to the weak spirits of ourselves that have wrestled too long to shape a place in this world only to be bruised and battered and never rising to expressions of full significance.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 145:8-9, 14-21
(This is the alternative psalm for Proper 13)
"Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised," begins Psalm 145 -- an acclamation that also appears in Psalm 48:1 and Psalm 96:4. It is a song overflowing with love and gratitude to the God to whom all eyes look, who "gives them their food in due season" (v. 15). Verses 8 and 9 provide a theological digest of the message of the entire psalm. The Lord is "gracious," "merciful," "slow to anger," and "abounding in steadfast love" (hesed). This God is also "good" and "compassionate." There are more than enough praiseworthy attributes of God enumerated in these two verses for a host of sermons. John Calvin, in his commentary on the Psalms, called verse 8 "as clear and satisfactory a description of the nature of God ... as can anywhere be found."
Like the much-longer Psalm 119, this psalm is an acrostic, each line beginning with a different letter of the Hebrew alphabet.
The goal of Psalm 145 is simple: praising the Lord. On the face of it, that may seem to be a pointless exercise. If God embodies all the attributes listed in verses 8 and 9, then -- of all the personalities in the universe -- God is the one who least needs praise. What could the "immortal, invisible, God only wise" possibly want with our "psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs"? (Ephesians 5:19; Colossians 3:16).
Yet, we don't praise God because God needs it. We praise God because there is something within us that remains incomplete and unfulfilled unless we offer praise. As Augustine wrote in a famous prayer, "Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless until they find rest in Thee."
It is that wistful longing that brings us to worship -- and has brought many of us back to church after extended times away. When we are away too long from the worship of God, there is indeed something in us that is restless. There is indeed a sense in which we become aimless, bouncing erratically from one wrong priority to another.
Now that doesn't mean we are unable to function -- that we can no longer do our jobs, or raise our families. Millions are doing just that every day, with hardly a thought for their maker. But for those of us who have known the overflowing joy of praise, how it "fulfills our desire" (v. 19), there has to be something more. That "something more" is faith, and the celebration of faith is worship.
The mighty redwood trees of California's Sequoia National Park are the largest life-forms on earth, yet it is a rare thing to see a redwood standing alone. This is because the roots of the Sequoia do not extend deep into the earth, as most tree roots do. Instead, Sequoia roots snake along just beneath the surface of the soil. So shallow are the redwood's roots that, when a tree is young, it is easily toppled by the wind.
The redwoods that survive, and that grow to such astounding heights, are the ones whose roots intertwine with those of other trees, forming a great interwoven mass of support. The storms that bluster their way through the valleys of the Sierra Nevada can work no harm on these trees -- for they stand strong and tall together, in community.
There are some who come to worship hoping to "get something out of it" in a purely individual sense. Some seek the aesthetic pleasure of music; others, the inspiration of a few thoughts gleaned from the sound and fury of the sermon; still others, the contentment that comes of life touching life, of simply being with good friends with whom they are well-accustomed to passing a Sunday morning hour.
Yet, that is only the half of it. In worship, as in life, we get by giving. It is not so much the song we hear with our ears that blesses us, as the song we offer to God in our hearts. When it comes to worship, it is truly more blessed to give than to receive.
* Francis Parkman suffered from both arthritic muscles and poor eyesight. He could work only five minutes at a time, scrawling huge letters on his manuscript, yet he managed to complete a massive twenty-volume historical masterpiece.
* Thomas Edison labored virtually non-stop in his attempts to find a way to develop two-way transmissions on a single telephone line. Suffering from exhaustion, he was ready to give up. Yet, persistence won out and on the twenty-second day he found a solution that gave birth to modern telephone communication.
* Michael Blake left home at seventeen to make his mark in the literary and cinematic world. He wrote more than twenty screenplays and numerous other stories and novels, but received only rejection slips for 25 years. Then, finally, the whole world shouted his praise when his Dances with Wolves told a tale everyone needed to hear.
It is always wonderful when perseverance wins out over huge odds: Former secretary of state, Henry Kissinger, made more than twenty secret trips to China before he was at last able to open new diplomatic ties between East and West; Colonial Sanders met rejection 112 times as he pitched his fried chicken recipe until finally selling his first franchise; Joe Wilson spent ten years attempting to make ink stick to paper and then one day stumbled on the secret that turned "Xerox" into a household name.
Those stories are inspiring, aren't they? Maybe so, in retrospect. Still, I have to confess it is hard for me to get motivated by the end results of successful ventures when there is no guarantee that the outcome will be the same for me. In my career as pastor, I have seen too much of failure even among those most full of faith and confidence to jump blithely into a "Pollyanna" mode. I watched a young couple bury three newborn sons in three successive years on foreign soil, far from family, in spite of the best efforts of medical science. I've heard the desperate cries of women who cannot get over the horrible pain of what fathers did to them in the secrecy of childhood bedrooms. I've seen robust faith degenerate through years of setbacks and loss.
Elaine Pagels, in retelling the story of a particular sect of early Christians, says, "History is told by the winners." There is a lot of truth in that. Who remembers the losers? Who keeps tabs on the has-beens? Who records the disasters of those who fade away under pressure or disaster?
History is told by the winners, and losers, even those who began with confidence and enthusiasm, are swallowed by the margins and forgotten. Even their tears are forgotten.
Today's lectionary passages are, in large part, stories of courage and wrestling and fighting and winning and losing. Jacob wrestles with his brother, with a divine intruder, with himself, and with God. In the end we are not quite sure who wins and who loses, but we do gain some transferable spiritual insights. Paul wrestles with his people, the nation of Israel, and his heart is torn by both winners and losers in the conflict. Jesus wrestles with the daily demons that consume our cares, and at the same time he wrestles with the commitments of our hearts. It is in Jesus' wrestling that we come to know the fullest extent of God's love for us, because God is wrestling, too -- wrestling to restore in us that which other fighters have taken away from us on the mats of life.
Genesis 32:22-31
There are a number of little things to pay attention to when approaching this passage. First, it portrays Jacob more as a coward than a devoted prayer warrior. Note that the passage does not indicate that Jacob took up his unusual post in order to pray. Rather, we are only told that he sent everyone on ahead of himself when faced with Esau's armed approach. In other words, Jacob put his family, his wives, his servants, his cattle, and his children between himself and his brother's likely attack. The others served as a buffer and as an early warning alarm system for Jacob -- when he heard the cries of the babies, he could still escape into the night and save his own skin.
Second, the events of Jacob wrestling with the divine messenger are surrealistic and are meant to convey meaning to Israel. This is not merely a nice campfire story that made for good entertainment; it was intended to live on as a didactic declaration of the origins of Israel's identity as distilled into its national name.
For that reason it is important, again, to see that within the book of Genesis there are four major story cycles: the story of Origins (chs. 1-11), the story of Abraham (chs. 12-25), the story of Jacob (chs. 26-36), and the story of Joseph (chs. 37-50). Included within each of these there are many other little stories like the one we read today. But it is important to read each little story within the context of the larger story cycle in which it is found. For the nation of Israel, receiving the covenant at Mount Sinai (Exodus 20-24), each of these story cycles in Genesis asked and answered a fundamental question of identity:
* Origins story cycle (chs. 1-11): Why is God making this covenant with us? Because this world is the creation and kingdom of God, and it is in civil war against God.
* Abraham story cycle (chs. 12-25): Who are we that God should come to us with this covenant? We are the descendents of the chosen son of Abraham, through whom the covenant was originated.
* Jacob story cycle (chs. 26-36): What is our character? We are tricksters and con artists like our father Jacob, but we are also "Israel" like him -- those who wrestle with God.
* Joseph story cycle (chs. 37-50): But why were we in Egypt rather than in the land of God's promise to Abraham? Because of a famine and Joseph's protective care.
With this in mind, several things become more apparent about the story in today's lectionary reading. First, this story should not be preached in order to answer logistical details: was it an angel or the second person of the Trinity that came to Jacob? Why was there no clear winner to the conflict? Does the dietary regulation continue in modern Judaism? Questions such as these miss the point: Jacob was a self-made man who created his own fortunes; he needed to learn that God is the author of destinies, and blessing is not the accumulation of goods or safety but a covenant walk with the Creator.
Second, the names in this passage are important. "Jacob" is the term for one who craftily maneuvers things to his own advantage. "Peniel" literally means "face of God," and is intended to declare an encounter with the divine that would scare one to death if it did not bring life. "Israel" means "he struggles with God." This becomes the new name of the old, crafty self-promoter. It also signifies the character of the nation that stands before God at Mount Sinai, ready to receive a new identity for a new spiritual journey.
Generations ago the English poet, George Herbert, penned a brilliant picture of the near-phantom connection that links us to God. In "The Pulley" he portrayed God at the moment of creation, sprinkling this new human creature with treasures kept in a jar. These were God's finest resources, given now as gifts to the crowning race of the universe: beauty, wisdom, honor, pleasure.... All were scattered liberally in the genetic recipe of our kind.
When the jar of God's treasures was nearly empty, God put the lid on it. The angels wondered why God did not finish the human concoction, having left one great resource still in its container. This last quality, God told the angels, is "rest." But God would not grant that divine treasure to the human race. The angels, of course, asked why. Herbert was ready with the divine answer regarding the best mix for the human spirit:
Let him be rich and weary, that at least,
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to my breast.
Herbert saw well that the strong talents and marvelous abilities of humankind would make us like impatient children, eager to strike out on our own and find our self-made destinies. Only if God would hold back a sense of full satisfaction from our souls would we search our way back home. James expresses the same idea in what remains a perennial theological paradox: it is the Law of God that gives freedom. When we use our abilities for our own ends we tend to destroy what is best in ourselves and others. When, however, we are restless to find the face of God in the divine law's mirror we find a glimpse of our own best faces reflected back toward us in God's smile.
George Matheson, the blind hymn writer, gave the same prayer to the church when he wrote:
Make me a captive, Lord, and then I shall be free.
Force me to render up my sword and I shall conqueror be.
I sink in life's alarms when by myself I stand;
Imprison me within Thine arms and strong shall be my hand.
My will is not my own 'til Thou hast made it Thine.
If it would reach a monarch's throne it must its crown resign.
I only stand unbent amid the clashing strife
When on Thy bosom I have leaned and found in Thee my life.
Romans 9:1-5
Romans 9-11 form a kind of "aside" or "excursus" in the otherwise rather direct flow of Paul's theological argument. In large outline the letter of Paul to the Romans can be summarized as sin (chs. 1-3), salvation (chs. 4-11), and service (chs. 12-16). The plight of humanity (chs. 1-3) calls out the redemptive care of God (chs. 4-8) which creates a new consciousness of what it means to be in God's family (chs. 12-16). Here in Romans 9, Paul wrestles with a topic that emerges out of the confidence of chapter 8. In that chapter Paul crescendos to a climax that guarantees the power of God to overcome any and all threats to our relationship with the divine.
Suddenly, however, it is as if Paul recognizes a flaw in this line of thinking. If God was so powerful that none could be lost to God's care, why is the remnant of Israel so disconnected from the Messianic revelation and salvation in Jesus? How can one have confidence that God's care will see you through if you also acknowledge that most of God's declared special people don't seem to be part of the divine family today?
The argument Paul puts forward in chapters 9-11 is a knotty one, challenging even students of jurisprudence with its convoluted meanderings and sub-points turning points of view back on themselves. But these opening lines are not at all ambiguous. Paul is wrestling. He is wrestling in his own heart to find an answer to the eternal conundrum encompassing divine initiative and human responsibility. He is fighting with a good religion in order to give expression to a better theodicy. He is tangling with the webs woven by the mystery of Creator sovereignty and creature weakness.
A message drawing on the anguish (v. 2) of this passage needs to be a message of anguish: why is the right so intertwined with the wrong? Why is the road to despair often paved with good intentions? Why does religion often devolve into mere morality? How does ritual feed on spiritual romance and rob it of passion?
Above all, this passage must not be used to promote any kind of anti-Semitism. Paul is not antagonistic toward those of his race, nor does he encourage anything of the kind. To miss the anguish of this passage is to belittle Paul's love for his spiritual family. Paul wrestles with difficult concerns, and we ought not make light of them by theologizing them away.
Matthew 14:13-21
To catch the full impact of these verses we need to understand two things. First, the Gospel of Matthew presents Jesus as king. He is identified as a royal scion of David in chapter 1, recognized as international king in chapter 2, declares the contours of the kingdom in chapter 13, assumes a right to the kingly palace in chapter 21, and declares his royal rule in chapter 28. Throughout the gospel, Jesus is the king -- sometimes cloaked and sometimes evident, but always ruling.
Second, here in chapter 14, the gospel writer appears to have set up a deliberate contrast (see vv. 12-13) between royalty as expressed through Herod (vv. 1-12) and that depicted by Jesus (vv. 13-36). Herod is superstitious; Jesus is deeply spiritual. Herod is driven by fear; Jesus is moved by compassion. Herod resents people; Jesus cares for people. Herod throws parties for the wealthy; Jesus makes feasts for the poor. Herod's soldiers hurt people; Jesus' disciples help people. Herod bows to the authority of sinful humans; Jesus bows to the authority of divine goodness.
The miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and fish is awesome, but it is not a stand-alone, attention-grabbing sideshow. It is an expression of the divine royal character of Jesus, and the values of his kingdom. While Herod wrestles with power and privilege to protect himself behind guarded walls, Jesus wrestles with weakness and poverty to restore dignity to humanity living out in the unsheltered open spaces. Herod demands and those around him die; Jesus gives and those around him find life and livelihood.
Application
I'm reminded, when writing about all these instances of struggle, of the scene Norman Vincent Peale once described. A young woman stared in disbelief as the Queen of England, Elizabeth II, approached her in open sight of thousands of people and hundreds of television cameras, and crowned her tennis champion of the world. It was the culmination of a powerful story of perseverance, since young Althea Gibson was born in poverty and suffered crushing childhood illnesses that left her muscles weak and her limbs twisted.
It was the perseverance of Althea's mother that made the difference. Mrs. Gibson one day pointed to a rock across the yard and asked her daughter, "Do you see that stone down there by the barn?" The girl did. It was huge, Althea remembered, and looked like an overgrown potato. "I want you to go down there and bring it up to the house," said her mother, "so we can use it as a step by the kitchen door."
The girl sobbed and protested. "Mommy!" she lamented, "I'm so weak that I can hardly even walk down there! How can I possibly move a stone that big?"
Her mother persisted, and simply said, "You can do it! I have confidence in you! You'll figure something out."
Indeed, inch by inch, rolling and tugging and pushing, the young lass moved that rock to the house. It took her two months to do what a healthy child would have accomplished in fifteen minutes. But as she tussled with the stone Althea's muscles strengthened and her limbs straightened. Surprised by her new energy, she began a rigorous training program that led to tennis and ultimately to Wimbledon. It was there that the Queen of England crowned Althea Gibson victor before an awestruck world.
When I first read Althea's story I had the same initial diffidence that other "success" stories often bring. But there was something in Althea's response both to her struggles and to their outcome that wrinkled with less tinsel. In Althea's view, the story revolved not around her own ability to see things through, but rather focused on her mother's "constant faithfulness and abiding love," to use a term pirated from a marriage ceremony. Perseverance was, for her, not so much the confidence of winning at Wimbledon or inventing something new or succeeding in business. Rather, it was being able to count on a relationship that would never let her down, even if she did not accomplish great things. The success was in being worthy of significance because she was loved, and not becoming worthy of love because she achieved some kind of "success."
Similarly for those who struggle and wrestle in today's passages. Perhaps we will be fortunate enough to celebrate our dreams come true. Yet whether we win or lose in life, faith's perseverance reminds us that God will always be there for us. That's reward enough for both time and eternity.
An Alternative Application
The story of Jacob is too powerful to merely be made one among many "illustrations." It is a grand teaching itself. If one uses the method of David Buttrick and assesses the moves of the text, it seems to flow somewhat in this manner: 1) Jacob wrestles with himself about how he will face Esau; 2) Jacob wrestles with God to find divine protection; 3) God wrestles with Jacob to help Jacob truly see and know himself and his need; 4) God wrestles with us in the same manner (hence the passing along of the name "Israel" -- see also Galatians 6:16) because 5) we also wrestle with ourselves. The over-arching theme of this passage, however, is that God will not let us go. This is both a threat to the selfish selves within us that do not want any gods apart from our own conniving minds, and a promise to the weak spirits of ourselves that have wrestled too long to shape a place in this world only to be bruised and battered and never rising to expressions of full significance.
Preaching The Psalm
Psalm 145:8-9, 14-21
(This is the alternative psalm for Proper 13)
"Great is the Lord and greatly to be praised," begins Psalm 145 -- an acclamation that also appears in Psalm 48:1 and Psalm 96:4. It is a song overflowing with love and gratitude to the God to whom all eyes look, who "gives them their food in due season" (v. 15). Verses 8 and 9 provide a theological digest of the message of the entire psalm. The Lord is "gracious," "merciful," "slow to anger," and "abounding in steadfast love" (hesed). This God is also "good" and "compassionate." There are more than enough praiseworthy attributes of God enumerated in these two verses for a host of sermons. John Calvin, in his commentary on the Psalms, called verse 8 "as clear and satisfactory a description of the nature of God ... as can anywhere be found."
Like the much-longer Psalm 119, this psalm is an acrostic, each line beginning with a different letter of the Hebrew alphabet.
The goal of Psalm 145 is simple: praising the Lord. On the face of it, that may seem to be a pointless exercise. If God embodies all the attributes listed in verses 8 and 9, then -- of all the personalities in the universe -- God is the one who least needs praise. What could the "immortal, invisible, God only wise" possibly want with our "psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs"? (Ephesians 5:19; Colossians 3:16).
Yet, we don't praise God because God needs it. We praise God because there is something within us that remains incomplete and unfulfilled unless we offer praise. As Augustine wrote in a famous prayer, "Thou hast formed us for Thyself, and our hearts are restless until they find rest in Thee."
It is that wistful longing that brings us to worship -- and has brought many of us back to church after extended times away. When we are away too long from the worship of God, there is indeed something in us that is restless. There is indeed a sense in which we become aimless, bouncing erratically from one wrong priority to another.
Now that doesn't mean we are unable to function -- that we can no longer do our jobs, or raise our families. Millions are doing just that every day, with hardly a thought for their maker. But for those of us who have known the overflowing joy of praise, how it "fulfills our desire" (v. 19), there has to be something more. That "something more" is faith, and the celebration of faith is worship.
The mighty redwood trees of California's Sequoia National Park are the largest life-forms on earth, yet it is a rare thing to see a redwood standing alone. This is because the roots of the Sequoia do not extend deep into the earth, as most tree roots do. Instead, Sequoia roots snake along just beneath the surface of the soil. So shallow are the redwood's roots that, when a tree is young, it is easily toppled by the wind.
The redwoods that survive, and that grow to such astounding heights, are the ones whose roots intertwine with those of other trees, forming a great interwoven mass of support. The storms that bluster their way through the valleys of the Sierra Nevada can work no harm on these trees -- for they stand strong and tall together, in community.
There are some who come to worship hoping to "get something out of it" in a purely individual sense. Some seek the aesthetic pleasure of music; others, the inspiration of a few thoughts gleaned from the sound and fury of the sermon; still others, the contentment that comes of life touching life, of simply being with good friends with whom they are well-accustomed to passing a Sunday morning hour.
Yet, that is only the half of it. In worship, as in life, we get by giving. It is not so much the song we hear with our ears that blesses us, as the song we offer to God in our hearts. When it comes to worship, it is truly more blessed to give than to receive.
