A Wound that Heals Us (Proper 24C)

 

Marc Chagall, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel 

 

A Wound that Heals Us
Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 24 Year C RCL)
19 October 2025--10:00 a.m. Sung Mass
The Rev. Fr. Tony Hutchinson, SCP, Ph.D.

Mission Church of the Holy Spirit, Sutherlin (Oregon)

Readings: Genesis 32:22-31; Psalm 121; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:5; Luke 18:1-8

 

God, give us hearts to feel and love,

take away our hearts of stone

and give us hearts of flesh. Amen.

 

When Ronald Reagan was running against incumbent president Jimmie Carter in 1980, only one presidential debate took place.  Reagan perhaps won the debate by use of a single memorable line.  Exasperated when Carter began to relist the deficiencies he saw in Reagan’s position on Medicare and Medicaid, Reagan interrupted, “There you go again!”  The audience burst into laughter.  Reagan had defused the criticism not through any refutation of fact, but just by strategically expressing well that most human of emotions, desperate exasperation.

 

“There you go again!” These words express frustration at someone’s apparent inability to change, whatever the relapse.  We often silently reproach ourselves with them.

 

Today’s Genesis reading tells the story of a man who has a hard time changing his conniving, self-seeking ways.  Even in the womb, he seems to struggle with his twin brother.  When Esau is born first, the feisty younger twin rejects his second-place by grasping Esau’s heel. So his parents name him Jacob, “Heel.”

 

A maneuverer from the start, Jacob plays on Esau’s simplicity and hunger to get him to ignorantly trade away his property inheritance for a dish of lentil stew, that the King James version inelegantly calls “a mess of pottage.” Later, he impersonates Esau by wearing fleece sleeves to imitate his hairy arms to trick his father and steal Esau’s spiritual blessing.

 

Esau, exasperated and resentful, plans simply to murder Jacob as soon as their father dies and take back his rightful inheritance and blessing.  So Jacob, ever wily, leaves town to lie low for a while.   He goes to his uncle Laban’s home far away to wait until things calm down.

 

Jacob clearly is in distress.  During his escape, he has a vision of a ladder into heaven, and for the first time connects briefly with the God of his grandfather Abraham and his father Isaac.  He calls the place Bethel, the House of God.  But he remains Jacob, the heel. 

 

Uncle Laban too is a trickster.   When he settles on a bride price for Jacob to marry one of his daughters, he tricks him into paying double—a work contract of fourteen years instead of seven—and taking on the unwanted elder daughter as well.  But Jacob’s hard work and business savvy pay off. When the shared assets grow to a size worth arguing about, tensions develop.  Jacob knows it is time to return to Canaan when, as he says to his wives, “Your father is not treating me a nicely as he used to.”

 

Now comes the problem of divvying up the wealth. Jacob still has tricks up his sleeve, turning the tables by tricking the trickster.  He rigs the process of selecting flocks in his favor, and ends up with the lion’s portion.  So he has to flee his uncle by night too, just as he had to flee his brother.  “There you go again!”  

 

As Jacob returns to Canaan, he is afraid that Esau still will murder him.  So he sends messengers with kind words.  They return and say that Esau is coming to welcome him home—accompanied by 400 armed men!

 

Yikes.  The big hairy man may be dull, but he clearly does not forget a grudge. 

 

Jacob is prudent.  He divides his large caravan into two camps:  if Esau takes the first by violence, at least Jacob might have half his family and goods left.  Then he sends all the huge baggage and livestock train in several small groups ahead, all with the instructions that if Esau challenges them, they are to say they are gifts from Jacob for his dear brother Esau.   Finally, he sends his own immediate family.   But he still is too afraid.  He alone goes back to spend the night on the riverbank.

 

That is when today’s mysterious story occurs.  A stranger accosts Jacob and wrestles with him in the dark until the break of dawn, when the stranger, desperate to end the match, performs some kind of ninja trick on Jacob’s hip.  Jacob can no longer wrestle.  He might as well give up.  But he continues to hold on for dear life.  The stranger says, “Let me go, for it is daybreak.”  Jacob replies, “Not until you bless me.” 

 

Jacob has run out of tricks.  He is desperate, unsure that his maneuvers will turn away Esau’s wrath.  He might lose everything in the next few hours.  The struggle in the dark in some ways represents the struggle going on in his heart:  his fears and plots versus the hope for a new day.  All he can do is hold tightly.  “Bless me,” he begs, “Bless me.” 

 

The stranger asks, “What is your name?  Who are you?”  “Jacob,” is the answer, “a heel, a trickster.” 

 

This confession, this avowal of stark truth when all options and plans are gone, marks a real change in Jacob’s life.  The stranger blesses him in reply, “Jacob is not your name, but Yisra’el: ‘It is God who Struggles.’”  “You are a heel no more.  You don’t need to struggle any more, for God is the one who struggles.” 

 

The day comes, and Jacob, forever changed, limps back to cross the river to his family.  His limp will stay with him the rest of his life.  He greets Esau later in the day, and the brothers are reconciled (with Esau in fine Asian style first refusing all the gifts, and then, after his brother’s urging, accepting them.) 

 

Today’s Lectionary includes this story along with other scriptures telling us to persist in seeking God: Jesus’ parable of a corrupt judge cowed into granting an annoying petitioner’s request simply to gain some peace and quiet, 2 Timothy’s counsel to hang in there whether the times are favorable or hard.

 

But the story of Jacob’s wrestle is not just about holding on tight, bulldozing ahead come hell or high water.  The key is in the words of blessing:  you don’t need to be a heel.  You don’t need to struggle.  Because God struggles with us, God struggles for us.  Be still and know that I am God. 

 

How many of us are Jacob here?  Do we say to ourselves: “There you go again! What can I do to get out of this fix? How can I turn back the clock?  How can I keep from the bad same old same old?”

 

When others have hurt us, how many of us are like Esau here?  Do we want to blurt out “There you go again,” and never again have anything to do with them, or worse, want to work them harm?

 

In all of this, God is there, loving us, supporting us, and holding us tightly.  In our desperation, we have to hold tightly onto God, and not let go, even though everything is going wrong and we may get hurt in the struggle. “I won’t let go, not until you bless me. Not until you tell your name, show me who you really are!” 

 

The good news is this:  our failings and the failings of others are ways that God shows his love and grace.  St. Paul knew this when he spoke of the mysterious “thorn” God had placed in his flesh: “but [God] said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness’…  for whenever I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Cor 12: 9-10).

 

Charles Wesley wrote a poem about this story that captures the need for persistence: 

 

Come, O thou Traveler unknown,
whom still I hold, but cannot see!
My company before is gone,
and I am left alone with thee.
With thee all night I mean to stay
and wrestle till the break of day.

 

Wilt thou not yet to me reveal
thy new, unutterable name?
Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell,
to know it now resolved I am.
Wrestling, I will not let thee go
till I thy name, thy nature know.

 

My strength is gone, my nature dies,
I sink beneath thy weighty hand,
faint to revive, and fall to rise.
I fall, and yet by faith I stand;
I stand and will not let thee go
till I thy name, thy nature know.

 

Yield to me now—for I am weak,
but confident in self-despair!
Speak to my heart, in blessing speak,
be conquered by insistent prayer.
Speak, or thou never hence shalt move,
and tell me if thy name is Love.

 

‘Tis Love! ‘tis Love that wrestled me!
I hear thy whisper in my heart.
The morning breaks, the shadows flee,
pure, universal Love thou art.
To me, to all, thy mercies move—
thy nature and thy name is Love.

 

Such prayer must begin in honesty about who we are.  Jacob must speak his old name before he can be given a new one.  Each and every prayer, each and every eucharist is a revolutionary act, subverting the system of oppression and accusation, including self-accusation. It tells us “heel,” “deceiver,” “fighter,” is not our true name. 

 

This week, find something in yourself that needs forgiving, needs remedying. And in your prayers, pray that God will help you with it, simply help.  And then be patient.   Say you won’t let go until he blesses you.  Be like that persistent annoying woman in the Gospel reading.  And forgive yourself.   

 

Also find something in someone in your life that needs forgiving, needs correcting, something that makes you angry and want to say “there you go again!”  And just forgive them.  If that’s not possible, ask God to help you forgive.  And say you won’t let go until he blesses you in this. 

 

In the name of Christ, 

 

Amen. 

 

What's Expected (Proper 22C)

 

What’s Expected
Seventeenth after Pentecost (Proper 22 Year C RCL)
5 October 2025--9:00 a.m.

Sung Morning Prayer with Liturgy of the Table

Parish Church of St Luke, Grants Pass (Oregon)

The Rev. Fr. Tony Hutchinson, SCP, Ph.D.

Readings: Habakkuk 1:1-4, 2:1-4; Psalm 37:1-10; 2 Timothy 1:1-14; Luke 17:5-10

 

God, give us hearts to feel and love,

take away our hearts of stone

 and give us hearts of flesh. Amen.

 

A few years ago, a member of the altar guild at Trinity Ashland approached me before service and said with emotion, “I need more faith!”  “What?” I said.  “I need more faith!” She repeated.  “How so?” I replied.  She answered, “I am totally angry and tired of dealing with the messes, drama, and scary stuff left by squatters when I come to Church in the morning. I know I should love the homeless and be gentle and welcoming.  But when they cause problems, I just can’t muster it.  I need more faith!”  

 

My heart went out to her.  Many of us in parish service have had to deal with “messes, drama, and scary stuff” due to people without shelter overnighting in the Church courtyard.  This good woman had been doing so admirably for months, only occasionally saying something when someone really went outside the boundaries.  But here she was, dealing with a major case of guilt and self-reproach for not “being nice” enough, for not “following Jesus” and forgiving.    All I could say was, “you have faith, and you don’t need to beat up on yourself for other people’s faults. We must keep reminding people of the rules, and if it doesn’t work, we might have to close the campus reluctantly, like all the other houses of worship in town.” 

 

“I need more faith.”  We all run into this, from a variety of quarters:  a feeling of being overwhelmed by demands on our time and emotional energies, and a sense of guilt and self-reproach when we don’t seem to be able to meet the requirements of what is expected of us, of what we expect of ourselves, or even muster a moderate amount of graciousness to help cover our shortfall.     

 

The Gospel reading for today is about this.  Jesus has just told the disciples that they need to forgive people who harm or hurt them even “seven times a day.”   The disciples respond with today’s line:  “Increase our faith!”  They are saying, “Yikes!  Forgive someone who does us wrong over and over again?  I need more faith.” 

 

Jesus answers,  “If you had even just a little tiny bit of faith, say the size of a little seed, then you could do impossible things!”  Elsewhere, it is “you can move mountains just by telling them to move.”  Here it is “you could tell that huge Mulberry tree over there to plant itself in the middle of the ocean and it would thrive there!” 

 

Jesus is being a little sarcastic here.  It sounds like he himself has had a bad day and might be saying to himself, “You need some faith here, Jesus!”  But what he means, stripped of the sarcasm, is clearly, “You already have enough faith.  Just put it into practice.”
 

He gives a parable saying it’s all about expectations:  “Does the household staff get to rest and have dinner just because they’ve worked hard in the field all day? No.  They must first feed the Householder in proper style and only then can they take their meal and rest.  Don’t expect any better.  Do what’s expected of you, and then some, and don’t worry about getting nice thank you’s or attaboy’s or attagirl’s.  You’ve only done what was expected.” 

 

As most of Jesus’ edgier parables, this parable in its original setting may be a criticism of the economy and society of exploitation around him.  But in Luke’s context it means:  “Lower your expectations and you might find that just doing what’s expected of you is enough of a reward.” 

 

What’s expected.  It sounds like a bad joke from that torment that most of us have encountered in our professional lives, the performance evaluation.  Cartoonist Scott Adams in one “Dilbert” strip pictures Dilbert’s officemate Alice seated across from her boss.  He begins, “Alice, your performance this year ‘meets expectations.’ You get a two percent pay increase.” Alice replies, “Meets expectations? I worked eighty hours every week!” The boss replies, “Yeah ... Well, I expected that.”  Alice adds, “I earned three patents this year! The company will make millions!”  The boss: “Really? Wow.   … I mean ... I expected that too.” Alice adds, “I donated bone marrow to our biggest customer! Twice!”  To which the boss replies, “I noted that under ‘attendance problem.’”  Later, Alice is in the cafeteria, clearly sobbing. Dilbert says, “I told you the bone marrow thing would haunt you.” Another officemate opines, “I'm starting to think the time I worked through my lunch hour was for nothing.”

Jesus says, “When you have done all you were ordered, say, ‘We are worthless slaves; we have done only what was expected!’”  Sounds like Dilbert’s pointy-haired boss from hell.  “Meets expectations?” Really? 

 

When reading the Gospels, we must constantly remind ourselves that the historical Jesus is to us a foreigner who speaks an unintelligible language.  His life and work was sparer and harder than any of us have seen.  They make the hardships of today’s third world look gentle.  His culture and religion are alien, with values and world-views that often seem narrow, inhumane, and even bigoted.  So we must carefully interpret his words or risk getting the wrong point.

In the chapters of Luke we have been reading over the last few weeks, Jesus has told shocking stories about people receiving rewards and recompense.   The loving father of the prodigal son welcomes the disrespectful and dissipated ingrate home.  He runs out to him, embraces him, and throws a big expensive party for him, much to the annoyance of his older brother who has met the expectations of his father and culture.   The householder praises the shrewdness of the dishonest manager, who retires to a gentle life being hosted and funded by those who benefited from his departing from expectations.  The homeless wretch Lazarus, no doubt ridden with messes, drama, and scary stuff, is welcomed to Abraham’s bosom, while the wealthy man who exceeded the expectations of society must suffer in the afterlife.

 

The disciples may well be thinking, “If moral reprobates, crooks, and those who sponge off of others are going to be blessed by God, just think of what good people like us are going to get!” 

 

And then Jesus tells them to forgive, forgive, forgive:  seven times a day for repeat offenders who seem not able to change.  And with the rest of us, they say, “I need more faith.”    Jesus, in clear exasperation says, “You want more faith?  Just a tiny bit of faith would work miracles for you, if you had any.  Let me tell you about some slaves who don’t get any extra praise or reward when they simply do what is expected of them.”

Jesus is giving them a Zen koan:  a saying hard to understand, that draws forth from us a change in perceptions and attitudes.   Like most of his parables, the saying turns everything on its head, and reverses expectations.   The first will be last; the last first.  The leader must be servant of all.

 

He is talking about faith in a loving God, a God of grace, a God like that loving father of two wayward boys.  If you want faith, you have to have faith.  And that means faith in God.  And God destroys our petty expectations by exceeding them. 

 

Jesus grew up reading and quoting from the Book of Sirach, which says, “My child, if you want to serve the Lord, prepare yourself for an ordeal” (Ecclesiasticus 2:1). Ordeal—dealing with the messes, the drama, and the scary stuff—is part of the job description of serving God.  It is part of the job description of being a disciple of Jesus. 

 

But faith in God—faith in the living Jesus’ expectation-overturning Abba—faith even in tiny, tiny amounts makes it better.  It’s not about quantity, it’s about quality.  It’s about whether it’s real trust in that loving God. 

 

When we trust, when we are deeply thankful and grateful, well, we stop keeping score.  Many things that once were intolerably hard become easy.  We seem to know the right thing to say at the right time.  And we no longer have a grudge against God or anyone else.  True faith—even in tiny amounts—is like that. 

 

Thomas Merton wrote, “[Concern about] means and ends... is not the way to build a life of prayer.  In prayer we discover what we already have.  You start where you are, and you deepen what you already have, and you realize that you are already there.  We already have everything, but we don't know it and we don't experience it.  Everything has been given to us in Christ.  All we need is to experience what we already possess.  The trouble is, we aren't taking the time to do so.”

 

May we strengthen our life of prayer, and exert trust and faith in that living, loving God, even just a little faith, because that is all it takes to work miracles.

 

Amen.