If it be your will, that I speak no more

And my voice be still, as it was before

I will speak no more—I shall abide until

I am spoken for, if it be your will (Leonard Cohen, “If It Be Your Will,” Various Positions)

I took a class—Reading the Gospel of John—that was, in short, a life-changing experience. Part of the class was to take a passage from the Gospel of John and just wrestle with it for the whole quarter. And wrestle with it I did. I felt like I pushed it, prodded it, trying to get meaning from it. Sometimes, it pushed back. I was both frustrated and enlightened, wounded and blessed—and came away with a very different picture of both God and myself.

A bit about my background going into this study: I grew up in a pretty happy Adventist home. I was okay with church and God and religion. That is, until I entered my undergrad program at Walla Walla College and was rudely awakened to the nature of church politics and disagreements. I was seriously shocked by the 1995 women’s ordination vote at Utrecht. It had never occurred to me that such a thing would even be up for discussion! There were a few other painful memories from that time which I won’t get into here, but suffice to say that by the time I left college, my faith in the church and God had been tested. However, my professors in the theology department at Walla Walla encouraged me to stick with the church and pursue a career in ministry. Because of their encouragement, I was more determined than ever to stick with the church. Problem was, I wasn’t sure if the church would want me. Eight years of pastoring left me feeling even more ambivalent and torn. I liked working with people—yet there were some serious wounds—some serious doubts—that kept eating away at my confidence.

With that background, I approached the Gospel of John. And even though I had read John before, although I thought I knew how to read the Bible, I was totally unprepared for what I found. Probably my two least favorite things in the world are confrontation and authority. When it comes to either of those things, I start stammering and hesitating, but the Jesus I met in John was fluent in the use of both. In John 5, the passage I wrestled with all quarter, Jesus heals a man, not because anyone challenges him, not because the man asks, not even as a response to faith. Jesus pretty much heals the guy because he can. It might be more accurate to say that Jesus didn’t heal the man, Jesus commanded the man to act like a healthy man, and the man obeyed. In the subsequent confrontation with the Jewish leaders, Jesus tells them, “My Father will show you greater things than these, so that you will be astonished.” Later on in the gospel, 14:12, Jesus is talking with his disciples and he makes this really astonishing promise: “The one who believes in me will do greater things than these.” I realized, reading these passages, that when I’d say things like “the church is Jesus’ body on earth,” I didn’t really get what I was saying. Jesus commissioned his disciples—and through them, the church—to become one with God, like he and the Father were one, and take up the role of Jesus on earth. To do even greater things than Jesus did when he was here.

In my study, I saw myself in that sick man of John 5. I had been carrying these wounds around, I’d been hurt by authority, hurt by my own attempts to use authority in ways that proved unhelpful or hurtful to others. I didn’t want to be healed. I didn’t want any of that, the authority, the responsibility, the self-confident swagger of those who “can” and “know.” My place was with the beggars and the cripples, the “sat upon, the spat upon, the ratted on.” But here comes Jesus, with purpose in his eyes and a gift in his hands. He’s got healing for me, but more than that, he’s got a mission, he’s got authority, he’s got power. “Do you want to be made well?” he asks. I tell him. I’m too far gone, Jesus. I’m too wounded, I can’t get in that pool, I don’t have the power, I can’t walk out of here and start exercising power. Go on and call someone else. But Jesus doesn’t listen. He doesn’t accept the excuses. He doesn’t go away. Just like in John 5:8, he simply commands: “Take up your mat and walk.” So what do I do now?

“Take up your mat and walk.” I guess there is nothing to do but take up my mat and obey. Take up my mat and change the world--dare I say, do even greater things than Jesus? So at the end of this study, at the end of this class, I shrugged my shoulders, muttered “oh, bother,” and went to take up my mat…and walk.

If it be your will, that a voice be true

From this broken hill, I will sing to you

From this broken hill, all your praises they shall ring

If it be your will to let me sing…

(This is actually a response to a comment on the previous post. I had to do it this way because Blogger is insisting that my response is over the character limit for comments, although several character counters all indicate it is under the limit. So I've given up and am posting it here.)

Ramone, thanks for starting this discussion. I'm glad you observed that this post focused exclusively on the OT, because I should have made a note on the context. It was a distillation of a paper I wrote for a class on the Hebrew Prophets. So that's why there isn't anything about the New Testament idea of prophecy. I absolutely do agree, however, that Christ must be the center of all Christian thought and practice--including our theology of prophecy. (As an aside, good golly do I wish more of my community--Seventh-day Adventists of all stripes--did more thinking about prophecy like you do on your blog. Could clear up a lot of confusion. Of course, knowing the church, it would lead to more confusion and problems, God love 'em all.) I’m working on a post about biblical interpretation and the centrality of Christ…that is, I would be, if I can pull myself away from the sweet dual addiction of Skyrim and Gears of War Horde mode.

At the same time that I affirm Christ as the perfect and unsurpassed revelation of God, I also think that Christians need to read the Old Testament on its own terms. The way that I grew up reading the prophets was literally reading Christ into the text of the OT. "Isn't it cool how these ancient prophets foretold the coming of Christ?" While that's good and orthodox, I think it's also risky or even problematic.

When I read the Bible, it strikes me just how much the message and mission of Jesus lean on the OT. In my own quest to understand Jesus's mission, it’s been helpful to read Jesus through the prophets as much as I read the prophets through Jesus. I'm speaking exclusively in and to my own context here, but it is waaaay too easy for contemporary Christians to think that the message of Jesus was "God loves you and if you believe in Jesus you'll go to heaven forever." Jesus saw his mission straight out of the prophets--to proclaim liberty to captives, break yokes and overturn oppression. And I find that reading the prophets--in their own words and contexts--helps give me a picture of what the "kingdom of God" looks like in this world.

For example, Jesus demonstrates repeatedly in the gospels, "Love your enemies." But I look around, again at my own community (comfortable, First-World Seventh-day Adventists) and I have to think, "Well, if this is what we're teaching, why are we doing such a terrible job living it?" And I do think that it would be helpful if we taught and preached from Isaiah, not only for the prophecies about the Messiah, but how the message of the prophet helps us understand just what Christ meant. To me, "Love your enemies" becomes a lot more real when one reads the words, "Assyria and Egypt will be a third along with Israel, and God will call all of you, My People." Christians aren't just obligated to love "enemies" like the crusty old neighbor or some bully at school--"enemies" means the people for whom you feel deep animosity, even with good reason. In Isaiah, we've got the big bad on the doorstep (Assyria) and the historical big bad lurking around (Egypt). I've come to believe that if my church is serious about being "God's people," we'd better get serious about seeing Muslims (contemporary big bad) and Roman Catholics (historical big bad) as God's own. And while I suppose that one could come to that conclusion from Jesus's statement "Love your enemies," Isaiah comes up, kicks you right in the mouth, and says, "Hey jackass, that's from God, those folks you're talking smack about are his kids too." And maybe I'm being judgmental, but I think that contemporary American Christianity needs the Holy Spirit to kick in the mouth, ‘cause we ain’t getting the message.

So that's a lot of words to say that yeah, I sure am glad that we have the revelation of Jesus Christ--and his revelation of God is my first and last, my beginning and end. But I sure do love them Hebrew prophets too.

Who is a prophet?

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster shells

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question…

Oh do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit. (T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock)

A prophet is one who is familiar with suffering and makes us familiar with suffering. A prophet demands our attention, fixes it on the things we would rather not see, rather not hear. A prophet harangues us, forces us…let us go then, you and I to see our culture, our churches, our societies, ourselves spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table. Drunk with the tears, the blood of the homeless, the voiceless, the fatherless, the hopeless. A prophet does not let us off easy. A prophet does not tell us the answer to the overwhelming question. The prophet insists, rather, “let us go and make our visit.” While we fumble for answers to questions like “What is God’s will for my life?” and cast longing glances toward Hollywood and Beverly Hills, the prophet hurries us downtown, to Skid Row, 5^th street, showing us “what becomes of all the little boys who run away from home…they’re on the nickel over there” (Tom Waits, Heartattack and Vine, “On the Nickel”).

Who is a prophet? A prophet is a person intimately familiar with suffering, not only of the fatherless and the widows, but of themselves. A prophet is one who makes pathos the ground of their being (Abraham J. Heschel, The Prophets, p. 298). A prophet is one who lives the tense, ambivalent relation between God and humanity. A prophet is one who lives, breathes and speaks the will of God, even if it hurts like hell.

A prophet interprets history by wrestling with Scripture. A prophet sees God’s sovereign will in the haphazard conspiracies, the vain plots by peoples and kings. Prophets assert that nations rise and fall not through military might or assassins in the night, but by the movement and will of Yahweh. Prophets assert that history is judged by the word of God, even when the divine word demands turning the flamethrowers on the history of the prophet’s own people (Amos 1-2). Even when turning to Scripture seems foolish, like 2^nd Isaiah seeing a foreign king as the promised deliverer. Even when calling people to the Scriptures means getting ostracized for negative prophecies and breaking down morale.

A prophet interprets Scripture by wrestling with—and within—the realities of history. Prophets struggled and suffered with their people, seeking answers to their sufferings in Scripture. Isaiah saw the Davidic Covenant affirmed, declaring that “God is with us” even in a dire siege (Isaiah 7). Jeremiah and Ezekiel saw that covenant fail, the falling of the dynasty that God swore would remain forever. The prophets suffered as they sought answers. They looked for ways to explain how Jerusalem declined and fell, finally deciding that the apostasy of the chosen people and their oppression of the powerless were so serious that God’s promise to David were reversed (Jeremiah 7; Ezekiel 8-11).

A prophet is one who stands for God before the people, even when it hurts to do so. Hosea took a wife of ill repute, standing before the people with his broken family to illustrate the troubled and painful relationship between God and Israel. Jeremiah stood for God before the people, raising his voice in the temple like a crazy old curmudgeon, proclaiming judgment during a time of celebration (Jeremiah 7). Ezekiel stood for God before the people, refusing to mourn for his wife, the “delight of his eyes,” in order to proclaim a message of judgment (Ezekiel 24).

A prophet is one who is bound to this world, these languages, these cultures, even as the prophet claims to speak for God. Prophets are not immune to the pain around them or within them. Jeremiah complained and compared the message to a consuming fire burning in his bones (Jer. 20). Hosea’s passion for God boiled over into language of jealousy, domestic violence, and unjust fury (Hosea 2). Jonah felt angry at the message he was given. Even the prophet could not escape his own pettiness or the all-too human desire to see vengeance thrown down on the enemies of his people. The same is seen in the messages of Nahum and Obadiah, raging against Ninevah and Edom. Noted Hebrew Bible scholar, Thomas Leclerc, notes that neither Nahum nor Obadiah is used in Christian or Jewish public worship. We are not comfortable with their messages—they bother us, get under our skin. Prophets of a loving and just God are not supposed to be hateful, vengeful, unglued! I am glad that they were preserved in our Bibles, if only to show us how human even messengers of God always are. Now we must wrestle with their words, their humanity, even if it is uncomfortable or painful.

Yet, although a prophet is one who is bound to this world, the prophet also reaches for something beyond this world, beyond language, beyond culture. That tension produces much pain and suffering. Micah and Amos reached beyond the standards of religion for a God of uncompromising righteousness, willing to burn the strongholds of his own people because of a burning passion for justice. One of the most beautiful passages in the Bible is Isaiah 19—where mortal enemies each become a “third” together with Israel. How did Isaiah feel, saying the words “Blessed be Egypt my people, and Assyria the work of my hands”? Did the words stick in his throat? Did the tether holding him to his world cut into his skin even as he reached for God with his words and his soul?

And the real mischief is, even though I took a course in the Hebrew Prophets, even though I just wrote all the preceding words—I don’t know if I can do those things. I am not a prophet. I wish that I was like Abraham Heschel, that I could take these words and eat them, that I could bang on rocks till justice ran down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. I don’t know if I can do it. That’s my sin right there. That’s the salvation that I need Jesus to give me, but I don’t know if he can because I don’t know if I want him to. I don’t want to suffer like that. I don’t know if I am that courageous, that passionate, that good. That’s the guilt that burdens me—that burns me—the guilt of knowing that deep down I am one of those hypocrites that my Lord called out when he said “Woe to you…” and there’s not a thing I can do about it. But I read the words of Abraham Heschel, and I hear again the words of Hosea and Amos and Jeremiah. And my ear is now more open to the hushed frequencies of sighs and sobs coming from the poor and the insignificant. I pray, I hope, that one day the God I read about in those ancient books can take this heart of stone and give me a heart of flesh, that maybe one day I can be courageous enough to suffer like a true prophet.

So I am left with many overwhelming questions. Who is a prophet? Am I? Is my church? Are we doing these things? Are we proclaiming good news to the oppressed, delivering liberty to the captives? Are we suffering with those who suffer? Should I not be concerned about those great cities—Riverside, Los Angeles, Bangkok, Baghdad, Mogadishu—in which there are millions of people, who do not know their right hand from their left, and also many animals? Do I hurt for God’s children as much as God hurts for them? Is God’s word to them burning inside of me? Am I a prophet? Is my church? Do I dare disturb the universe?

How marvelous, how wonderful...

A couple of weeks ago, Amanda and I paid a visit to Azure Hills SDA Church in Grand Terrace, CA. It was the first time in a while we'd been able to visit a church; I'd been working for the past year as the part-time youth pastor at our home church (Mission Road SDA Church of Loma Linda, nee Loma Linda Japanese Church). We had heard that it was a good idea to get there early for the service, as the sanctuary is a bit undersized for the congregation and it could get hard to find seats if one came late. So we got there around 10:40 am, not realizing that the main service didn't start at 11--they start at 11:20. So we were really early for church, but a bit late for Sabbath School. We slipped into the adult class in the main sanctuary, and right into the middle of a rather lively discussion about the theme of "Salvation by Faith."

For anyone unfamiliar with Adventists, our thinking about this topic is very much in flux. While mainstream Adventist thinking and publication have professed a belief in justification by faith alone since the late 1950s, there was (and, truthfully, still is) an unfortunate undercurrent of works-based salvation. This undertow leads to a tendency toward legalistic perfectionism, all culminating in (NOTE: The following clause is entirely my opinion) the ugly, unfortunate heresy called "Last Generation Theology."

The thinking goes like this: We are indeed justified ("made acceptable/righteous") by faith in Jesus, and by continuing in faith we are able to gain victory over sin. Literally. Really, truly, not sinning. In essence, living a sinless life--perfectly keeping all the laws of God--is not only possible for the faithful, but such a life is the proof of one's faith and a requirement of salvation.

The problems with such a view are numerous, but a quick shout-out to a few: A truncated, simplistic view of "sin;" a huge temptation toward arrogance and elitism; the divorcing of Adventists from the historical fellowship of the universal church; and finally, the sidelining of God from salvation (if one can fully banish sin from one's life, the need for God is...?)

So back to Azure Hills church and the adult Sabbath School class: Being that this was a large and very diverse class, there were a few people advocating for the preceding point of view. My objections to this view have already been addressed. But, being a large and diverse class, there were likely to be a number of voices reacting to this view. And sure enough, there were people saying that no, the New Testament clearly teaches that we are saved by faith. Alone. Period. We can do nothing to earn salvation; it is faith in Jesus's life and death that leads to us being declared righteous.

And to be honest, although I think it is a healthy movement away from the legalistic perfectionism crowd, I don't think the "salvation by faith alone" folks have it exactly right either. Under this model, doesn't faith itself become a sort of "work?" I make an intellectual assent to the saving power of Jesus, I confess with my mouth that he is Lord, and so the wrath of God is averted. The focus isn't on obedience to the law, but it is still something that I do. And there's the hitch for me--the focus is still on what I do, whether it is "obey the law" or "confess faith in Jesus."

My suggestion is: We are not saved by works, and we aren't saved by faith either. "For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith--and this is not of yourselves, it is the gift of God" (Ephesians 2:8). It is God's grace that saves us, God's desire to call us "his own," that saves us. We could believe till the cows came home or the sun burned up all its hydrogen, but without God desiring us, it would do but two things--"Jack" and "squat." And Jack left town. [Apologies to the great Bruce Campbell, the change in quote is mine, and intentional.] Again, faith and works do not save us. Faith makes us aware of God's grace, and the awareness of faith frees us from lives enslaved by sin and death. The works of righteousness are the result of God's grace played out in our lives, the fruits of God's Spirit, the joy and pleasure of those living as heirs of grace. But salvation truly is the work of God, from beginning to end, from first to last.

The really cool thing? I first came to this realization in college, probably my first or second quarter at Walla Walla...and I haven't worried one iota over the question "Are you saved?" since then. My answer from then on has been, "Bother if I know, but I've got reason to hope that God really wants me around for a good long time--and that's enough."

A very nice illustration of this came just a few minutes later, in the singing time of the main church service. I mentioned this in a Facebook status post--the group leading the song service chose a very old hymn entitled "I Stand Amazed." I have no idea where I heard this song, it's been years since I last heard it, but as soon as they started I knew every word. I couldn't get the song out of my head, and I think it's because it perfectly captures this experience of "Saved by grace." I found a video on YouTube which I will upload--if anyone is reading this and clicks on the video link, listen to the words. The entire hymn is focused on what God has done--the singer simply "stands amazed." For those who do in fact believe what they are singing, the words of the chorus just erupt like a fountain of joy:

How marvelous, how wonderful!

And my song shall ever be;

How marvelous, how wonderful

Is my Savior's love for me!

Genesis 32:24-26

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, until you bless me.”

I’ve been wrestling with a decision. I’m going to confess something, and I’m not sure if I should…knowing this might change the way some of you see me. But I just thought this confession really went with the subject well. So today I declare that I was a fan of professional wrestling. Not just when I was younger—for a college writing assignment I wrote an essay defending pro wrestling as a legitimate American art form.

I honestly don’t know why wrestling fascinated me so much. I knew from the very beginning that it was “fake,” that the guys in the ring throwing punches and body-slams at each other weren’t fighting for real. Perhaps it was the fakeness of it all, the spectacle of two grown men pretending to fight in front of thousands of people. Perhaps it was the colorful, larger-than-life characters, the way the good guys were everything a boy could dream of becoming and the bad guys got away with everything we wished we could. Maybe it was the storylines, over-the-top but yet reassuringly simple: I was best friends with a guy and then he hit me with a chair, so we’re fighting. I want to be the champion, so I steal the champ’s pet snake to goad him into a match. Simple stuff for troubling times—what could be better?

You will notice, however, that as I talk about my fascination with pro wrestling, it’s all in the past tense. Much to the relief of my mother, I don’t follow wrestling anymore. Part of my decision not to follow wrestling surely had something to do with getting married. Amanda never made an ultimatum—“turn that wrestling garbage off or you’d best get a motel room by yourself”—but she’s not a fan, and I’d rather spend time with her than watch two scantily-clad musclemen pretend to fight. Imagine that. Also, as I delved more into the world of pro wrestling, I began to learn about the reality behind the storylines and the fake fighting. The truth is, these guys who would flex their muscles, fly out of the wrestling ring and cut boastful interviews about how strong and tough they were…weren’t all that tough. The intense travel schedule had them on the road and away from their families 300+ days out of the year. The very real life injuries they accumulated from slamming into the mat or through wooden tables racked their bodies with pain, leading many to become addicted to painkillers or other drugs. To maintain their physiques and recover from their injuries they took steroids or growth hormone, causing numerous other health problems. In the last twenty years, more than eighty wrestlers and ex-wrestlers under the age of 65 died of causes ranging from suicide to drug overdoses to heart failure linked to steroid abuse. Behind the 24” biceps, the macho posturing, the tough talk, many of these people were broken, hurt, and scared. Simply put, I stopped following wrestling because it wasn’t so much fun anymore.

But then I had to wonder whether I am so much different. When I worked as a pastor, I’d get up in front of my church and say “Let’s open up the Word of God today,” and sometimes I’d be feeling broken, and hurt, and scared on the inside. I’d be running board meetings and feel completely out of my league. I heard that our church here is starting a building project—when I was working in Sacramento we embarked on a building project, and there were times leading that effort that I thought I’d need a diaper. Like a bad guy wrestler boasting about his physique or strength, all the while broken and addicted and desperate, I got good at acting spiritual, acting brave, while I was feeling lonely and hurt and desperate. Perhaps there was more to my appreciation of wrestling and wrestlers.

So it should come as no surprise that one of my favorite Bible stories is Genesis 32:22-32, the story of Jacob wrestling with God. It should by now be clear why I like the “wrestling” part. Another reason this story is so fascinating is the main character—Jacob. Jacob is one of my favorite biblical characters, if only because he is all so human. So imperfect, even unlikeable. His very name means “supplanter” or “grasper,” and all throughout his life his character has been consistent—a liar, a cheater, a manipulator, a coward. He cheated his brother out of his birthright. He lied to his father and stole the blessing. His relationship with Laban—Jacob’s uncle and father-in-law—was characterized with both of them, Jacob and Laban, lying to one another, cheating each other, using and manipulating family ties and loved ones to gain an advantage. All Jacob’s life, he has relied on cunning, cleverness, slipperiness to get what he wants. But now, in this story, camped out here by the Jabbok river, he has been caught by his multitude of lies. His past sins have found him out. He is about to face his brother, whom he has not seen in years. But when they last saw each other, Esau was planning to kill Jacob, and Jacob was running for his life. Imagine what Jacob was thinking—thinking about that day so long ago when he lied to his father and stole his brother’s blessing. Thinking about the intervening years, his brother’s anger festering and growing all the while. Now Jacob is making his way back with wealth and wives and children, and the news comes back that Esau is riding on an intercept course with 400 men. Jacob cannot lie his way out of this one. Cleverness makes for a poor defense against a spear aimed at one’s chest. In desperation, Jacob devises all manner of strategies to appease or escape Esau—splitting his convoy, sending gifts ahead, but nothing can quiet his fears. Finally, he collapses in prayer, calling on God to remember God’s promises to his grandfather, to his father. He confesses his sins, admits that he is the unworthy of God’s favor. Finally, Jacob is left alone, in the dark, to ponder his life, his legacy, his name. Jacob—supplanter, liar, cheater, thief.

In the dark, as he thinks over his life, his prayers are interrupted by an unknown assailant. He’s grabbed in the dark by a man in a sudden sneak attack. It’s almost like he’s facing himself—sneaky, cunning, backstabbing. One could say the man “Jacobed” him! In this corner, from parts unknown—the Mysterious Stranger. In this corner, from Paddan-aram: Jacob. And it’s on! The match is even, the two are grabbing and tripping and throwing each other, but neither can get an advantage. They wrestle until daybreak, and as the sun begins to rise the mysterious stranger touches Jacob on the hip. The Bible tells us in verse 25 at that one touch, Jacob’s hip was put out of joint. His leg is useless. He cannot fight anymore. All he can do is drape himself over the mysterious stranger’s back, or cling to his leg, desperately trying to avoid the death-blow.

But instead of a stomp on his head or a stranglehold around his throat, Jacob gets asked a question. Verse 27, the stranger asks, “What is your name?” Jacob is forced to give his name. The supplanter, the liar, the cheat, the thief. Jacob had to face up to what he did, the life he lived, who and what he was. Jacob. But the stranger wasn’t done with Jacob. Verse 28, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.”

The match was fixed. Like a pro wrestling match, the outcome was never in doubt. The stranger could have ended the match at anytime. Winning or losing was never the point. The reason for the match was the struggle. Jacob had to strive, to fight, to struggle. He had to face down his past of conniving, of manipulating, of lying and taking the easy way out. The struggle gave him a new name—a new character, a new identity, a new destiny. Note that even with this new name and new destiny, Jacob was never perfect. Just after he receives his new name we see Jacob still drawn back to his old self, still trying his games. In verse 29 he asks for the stranger’s name. In ancient times, if you knew my name you had power over me. Jacob is still grasping, still looking for some advantage, but the stranger does not bite. Later on in the story we see that Jacob’s family life was a mess, and tragically, that would never change even after his name changed. He favored one wife over the other, one son over all the others, continuing the hurt and brokenness he inherited from his parents. He sat on the sidelines as the ensuing rivalry and resentment tore his family apart. Jacob’s encounter with the divine did not perfect his character, but the change signaled a new experience of grace. The stranger does not give Jacob his name—but he does give what Jacob was striving for all his life: a blessing. God’s blessing did not come as a result of Jacob’s victory, it did not come because Jacob knew the stranger’s name and held some mystical power. God’s blessing came as a gift, freely given, but not on Jacob’s terms—and not so free. The gift left its mark on Jacob. In verse 31 we see Jacob—blessed and victorious, amazed that he saw God and lived, but leaving with a limp. Limping, but somehow—stronger. No longer is Jacob the desperate, fearful grasper. He is limping, but no longer is he terrified in the dark, dreading the fateful encounter with his brother. Jacob met God face to face and survived—so how dreadful is the meeting with Esau? After surviving his meeting with God, Jacob could hardly fear death against Esau.

It’s a great story, a story of divine grace and goodness slamming head-on into human frailty and sinfulness. But what does it mean for us here, today? How does one “wrestle” with God here and now? I don’t know about anyone here, but I have never had my prayer time interrupted with a rock-and-wrestling rumble with a divine being. I would still suggest that wrestling with God is something we can all do, something perhaps that we all need to do. I’ve never met an angel wearing a singlet, but I have met God. I have had my own sinful baggage and expectations run up against divine truths. We can wrestle with God through this, through Scripture. Eugene Peterson, author of the Message paraphrase of the Bible, tells all Christians to “eat this book.” Devour the words of Scripture, plant this book so deep in the fiber of our being that we think, breathe, and bleed these words. But wrestling with Scripture means more than just reading or memorizing inspiring passages. It means pushing back, being honest with this book, bringing our objections and our resistance. Like Jacob, we are called to strive with God.

A word of warning: The God who wrestled with Jacob is not the God of positive self-esteem who is so popular in Christian circles today. Wrestling with the God of Scripture will break us out of the easy, self-centered religion of “what makes me feel good.” The wrestling described in Genesis 32 is not like playing a wrestling video game on the Xbox 360. It is real, it is physical, it is vigorous and desperate. Even as I push back against God and the Bible, God and the Bible push back on me. Even as I bring my objections to the difficulties in Scripture, Scripture brings its objections to my lies, my unfaithfulness, my doubts. The wrestling match will bless us, but it will also leave us wounded. Phyllis Trible writes that healing and restoration do not come on our terms—that like Jacob, we will leave the encounter with a limp.

As I consider the story of Jacob I recognize much of my own character in him. Like Jacob I give in all too often to the temptation to take the easy way out, to grasp for blessings from God and from others by lying, manipulating, conniving. My experience with God is less the walking on the beach in “Footprints in the Sand” and more a wrestling match in the dark along the banks of the Jabbok River. I come to the Bible with many doubts, I see many difficulties in this sacred text. I am angered at the way I see my own church using these words, these texts, as weapons, to label, to judge, to hurt people we so easily label as “others.” But in the midst of these doubts, these difficulties, my pushing against God, I find myself clinging to God and to this book. Clinging desperately to these words because I love these words, I love this church, I love my God, and I find at the end of the day I can do nothing but cry out, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” And of course, God in his love and mercy and grace—God does bless me. God does strive with me, and in the striving he changes me, he reminds me that in him I have a new identity, a new purpose, a new destiny. I am reminded in this book that God wrestled not only with me, he wrestled with this world and the powers of darkness that ruled it. God came to this world and took sin head-on, he walked among us in our sickness and misery, got down in the mud and the blood and the sweat. God sat in a garden and sweat until he bled, he wrestled a plank of wood onto his shoulders, he stretched his arms out and hung on a cross and cried out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” God wrestled, he limped, he bled and he died. John 1 says that to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave them power to become children of God, who were born not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of a man, but born of God. The Word became flesh and lived among us. We have seen his glory, the glory as of the one and only of the Father, full of grace and truth. From his fullness we have all received grace upon grace. That is the gift he wants to give us. That is the blessing that awaits all those who eat this book, who wrestle with Scripture and the God revealed within. That is what awaits anyone with the courage to wrestle with God—even if it means leaving with a limp.

And as I wrestle with Scripture, as I am changed by the God of the Bible, I find that wonder of wonders, I begin to look less like a wrestler. My advances and retreats feel less like combat and more like…a dance. If you think about it, a dance is a lot like a wrestling match. Two people face each other, there are advances and falling back, coming together and moving apart. The difference of course is that wrestling is competitive and combative, whereas dancing is cooperative and loving. Now I know this is an Adventist church, I’m not talking about some booty-shaking forbidden dance. The image I get is more like an old married couple, who have had their differences and their arguments and their fights, but they still love each other, they still treasure each other, they still come together and dance. Johnny Cash sang these words, and they bring a smile to my face because they remind me of what I hope my relationship with God looks like as I cling to him and am changed by him.

I hear you whisper every night, “May I have this dance?” And though I’m not light on my feet, I always take the chance. We’ve gone through many storms and often walked through fire—but always our love and faith took us higher and higher. We know the mystery of life: it’s “Love hard and long.” I love you, and I always will as long as the sun will shine.

I don’t have many answers. Living this life is not easy. But I would invite you to join me. To be wounded and yet blessed. To gain strength even as we walk with a limp. To cling to and be held by our God. Sometimes muttering through clenched teeth, sometimes yelling at the top of our lungs, “I will not let you go until you bless me!”

Sometimes, I even think God is doing the same.

FIRST POST IN THREE YEARS HOLLA IF YOU HEAR ME

So, as promised, the restart of this blog. We'll see how long this lasts, but I'm committed to posting regularly for at least a month.

The Sr. pastor at our church preached a sermon this past Sabbath in which he challenged everyone to get going with "spiritual exercise," and since I was voted in as an elder, I thought it would be good to heed that call. For the next month, I'm going to attempt to engage in a sort of spiritual renewal, although the way I envision this going is a little different than what I've usually heard described as "renewal."

The first step in this exercise/renewal effort concerns this blog. As anyone reading will surely notice, this is the first activity on this blog in more than three years. I stopped because I got disinterested in writing about myself, but as I've come to realize, it goes deeper than that. To put it simply, I don't like hearing myself talk (or reading what I write). I've never been much of a talker, much to Amanda's frustration, and a lot of that has to do with simply being uncomfortable getting my thoughts and opinions out into the universe. Some things occurred recently which made me think that it might be a good idea to change that, so I've decided to begin writing down my thoughts in order to share them. Take these words however you will--as a conversation, a devotional, heck, even as a bunch of delusional assertions by an empty, puffed-up blowhard. They are, however you decide to take them, my thoughts, and I'd invite anyone reading this to feel free to respond and dialogue. I will do my best to be as genuine and honest as possible, while not crossing the veil of "TMI" or "diabolically offensive."

The second step in this effort is centered around Bible study...conveniently, this is also the focus of my M.A. and likely the future focus of any Ph.D. studies I do. A couple of statements to begin: I believe that the Bible is, in fact, inspired ("God-breathed" in the Greek) divine revelation. It is the starting point of all my talk about God, and most of my talk about morality and destiny. I do not believe, however, that the Bible is exhaustive, comprehensive, or inerrant. There will almost certainly be times where I resist or outright disagree with stuff written in the Bible. I hope neither of the three or so people likely to read this blog are too shocked by this. Again, that focus on integrity and honesty, even when it comes to Holy Scripture.

Finally, what this blog will seek to record is the intersection between the first two points--how my thoughts/experiences intersect with the process of Bible study, and how each informs and influences the other. Why is this so important that I've decided to chronicle the process every day for at least a month? It has to do with what I see is the true purpose of Bible study and revelation. Lots of times, when people say "I'm going to engage in Bible study because I want revival in my life," it involves reading through passages of the Bible in order to find wisdom/happiness/transformation in the words. And while that's good, I have a feeling that it's somewhat inadequate. Maybe "inadequate" isn't the right word, but I think there's something more going on.

In the fourth Gospel (According to John), there's a theme that runs through the entirety of the gospel. As the Christian community faces a time of transition, when the first-generation apostles and witnesses to Jesus have all passed away, the community can be assured of one thing: that the words of Jesus as recorded in the Gospel are as powerful, authoritative, and true as his physical presence was. Believing in the words of Jesus creates a mystical connection just as real as if one were in his presence. "If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you" (John 15:7). The purpose of Bible study isn't just to get wisdom or some warm fuzzy feeling. It's not even to get "closer to God," whatever that means. Studying the Bible is, in fact, a way in which the Word of God incarnate in Jesus is in a sense re-incarnated in the collection of believers known as the Church. "I have given them the glory that you gave me, I in them and you in me, so that they may be brought to complete unity. Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me." (17:22, 23)

I do not know how this happens, nor how it will play out in this specific experiment. Knowing me, it's going to be an imperfect, inelegant, static and white-noise-laden incarnation. If there are noteworthy epiphanies, they will probably come mixed in with despair, angst, and jaded, misanthropic irony. All our best attempts to reflect God are strange, broken, "as in a mirror, darkly." But through the processes of Bible study and actively reflecting on life and experience through this blog, I guess we'll see if there's anything to my belief.