The same night he got up and took his two wives, his two
maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the
stream, and likewise everything that he had. Jacob was left alone; and a man
wrestled with him until daybreak. When the man saw that he did not prevail
against Jacob, he struck him on the hip socket; and Jacob’s hip was put out of
joint as he wrestled with him. Then
he said, ‘Let me go, for the day is breaking.’ But Jacob said, ‘I will not let
you go, unless you bless me.’ So
he said to him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said, ‘Jacob.’ Then the man said, ‘You shall no longer be called
Jacob, but Israel, for you have
striven with God and with humans, and
have prevailed.’ Then Jacob asked
him, ‘Please tell me your name.’ But he said, ‘Why is it that you ask my name?’
And there he blessed him. So
Jacob called the place Peniel, saying,
‘For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life is preserved.’ The sun rose upon him as he passed
Penuel, limping because of his hip. Therefore
to this day the Israelites do not eat the thigh muscle that is on the hip
socket, because he struck Jacob on the hip socket at the thigh muscle.
-
Gen. 32:22-32
Resurrection
happens when you least expect it, where you’re least likely to look, to the
person you’re most likely to ignore.
Like when
everybody’s gone away, and the sun is setting on the banks of the River Jabbok,
to that exile, that wanderer, that trickster, that heel of a person we know as
Jacob. Really—that’s what his means.
Jacob isn’t
somebody I want to like. He was never the once and future quarterback of the championship
football team; that’s his brother Esau. Jacob gets what he wants through
trickery, through withholding food to the hungry, through dressing up as
someone else and fooling an old, blind man. And then when his sins catch up
with him, he runs away.
Jacob’s
trickster nature follows him in exile. He manages to seduce Rachel, Laban’s
daughter, but then somehow ends up marrying both of Laban’s daughters. And then
he has sex with not only both of them, but also several of his maids. That’s
not even why Laban eventually evicts Jacob. That happens because Jacob has been
tampering with his father-in-law’s herds of cattle. And then Jacob runs away
again.
That’s when
Jacob gets word that his estranged brother, whose last words directed to Jacob
were “I’m gonna kill him first chance I get!”, is looking for him. With 400
other guys whom Jacob assumes want nothing more than to take turns hitting
something.
And what
does Jacob do? He sends all of his family to the other side of the River Jabbok
where Esau and his bloodthirsty band of brass knuckles are waiting for him.
Like I said—I don’t want to like Jacob.
Maybe I don’t
want to like Jacob because his story reminds me of my own character defects.
Jacob’s story reminds me of all the times that I have struggled—struggled with
my own identity and purpose, struggled with my relationships with other people,
and struggled with God.
So where is
the resurrection in this story? Well, let’s have a look at Jacob when the sun
comes up. Jacob is visibly limping. He answers to a new name. And he confronts
the demons of his past with the confidence of someone who has experienced true,
life-altering blessing.
Jacob had
experienced resurrection, resurrection through struggling with God.
Funerals are
another place where we don’t expect resurrection. Loved ones gather to share in their grief and
their loss, to give their last good-byes to a corpse that is as empty as a
deflated balloon.
And yet we
often call funerals services of death and resurrection. We often refer to John chapter
11 where Jesus declares that he is the resurrection and the life. And then we
pray “Requiem aerternum dona eis Domine”—“Grant
them eternal rest, Lord our God.”
But rest
isn’t the intention of resurrection. The purpose of resurrection is life, yes,
even life abundant! And what is life but struggle—struggle with the world,
struggle with all the wicked and wonderful people that inhabit it, struggle
with God, great God Almighty, Dominus
Deus Sabaoth!
God is the
resurrection and the life. God is the resurrection and the struggle.
The
struggle! Yes, sisters and brothers, God is the struggle, or as our
Spanish-speaking sisters and brothers call it, la lucha. I’ve heard my Spanish-speaking sisters and brother talk a
lot about la lucha since I decided to
join them in solidarity with la lucha.
“¡Viva la lucha!” they shout at
rallies, and I’ve gotta tell you, sisters and brothers, Anglos like me should
listen to them. White folks like me should listen to our sisters and brother
from the global South because they know an awful lot about la lucha and resurrection.
 |
| My Metodistas de BsAs |
I learned
about la lucha and resurrection when
I had the blessing to study in Argentina while I was an undergrad. I’m tempted
to say that it was another one of those unlikely times and places where
resurrection occurred. Some young people in the little Methodist church in
downtown Buenos Aires graciously accepted me into their clique, and then began
educating me in the ways of the la lucha.
My friends invited me to march with them in the Veinti-cuatro de Marzo parade,
that is the twenty-fourth of March, which marks the anniversary of the last
coup-d’état in that country. See, during the military dictatorship that began
on March 24, 1976, some 50,000 political dissidents were “disappeared”, many of
them young people who were learning to struggle, to be in la lucha, against injustice.
The day
ended with a concert by León Gieco, the Bob Dylan figure of Argentina, at the
Escuela de Mecánica de la Armada—the Naval Mechanics School—which had served as
a center for detention, torture, and execution during the dictatorship. Shortly
before the concert began, a branch of the Peronista party, which had been
viciously persecuted during the dictatorship, began a rally to remember their
fallen comrades. I can still see the flags, banners, and posters lifted high
into the air. I can still feel the exuberant bodies of the crowd around me. I
can still hear their chants of liberation. The leader would read a name of a
disappeared person, and the crowd would shout back, “¡Presente!” As León Gieco sang his most famous song, Solo le Pido a Dios—I Only Ask God—and
everyone sang with him, I could feel resurrection around me. And la lucha—the struggle—continued.
A classmate
of mine at seminary, Tito, had some thoughts about resurrection during our
first semester of classes together. While we were struggling with the concepts
of early Christian theology, Tito shared that resurrection was very important
for him and his comrades in Latin America, particularly in El Salvador where he
had served the victims of the civil war there. He said that resurrection was important
because no right-wing death squad, even when armed with best weapons the
American government could sell them, could stop a revolution based on
resurrection. Such resurrection-minded revolutionaries could cry out like St.
Paul, “O death, Where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?” La lucha—the struggle—continues and you,
O Death, can’t stop it. You, O Death, can’t beat it. You, O Death, are overcome
by the power of the resurrection and the struggle!
Dear friends,
witness the power of the God of resurrection! Let the power of resurrection
blow apart all of your expectations! Let the power of resurrection touch you
and change you forever! Let us say yes to the God of the resurrection! Let us
say yes to the God of life! Let us say yes to the God of the struggle! ¡Que viva la lucha! ¡Amén!
[Sermon was preached at First United Methodist Church at the Chicago Temple on April 23, 2014.]
