I’m going to read you a poem I wrote, but before I do, I’m going to tell you a little about the main character.

His name is Jacob, which means “the trickster, “ or “the supplanter.” And he’s a low-down lying, cheating scoundrel. He stole his older brother Esau’s blessing from their father, Isaac. You might remember the story: Esau was hairy and Jacob was smooth, so Jacob wore animal skins to trick the blind old man, and he lied to his father and said he was Esau, and stole Esau’s blessing intended for the first born. Jacob’s a liar and a cheat.

I’ve always identified with him. I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not just because he’s a scoundrel. I also identify with him because “James” is the English derivation of “Jacob,” so we have the same name. And, what’s more, Jacob has an injured hip, and I had an injured hip in high school that required three operations. (I’m not sure that means anything, but I’ve always found it interesting.)

Maybe all that is why Jacob has always been my favorite. And that’s why this story of Jacob wrestling has always been so special to me. I return to it again and again in my life. My spiritual life so often feels like wrestling. It is a formative story. It’s full of mystery. It doesn’t give answers. It doesn’t explain. It forms. So I’m wary of analyzing it too much, finding precise meaning, dissecting it, because I’m afraid that might rob its power, kill it.

So, let’s just look at the story, and then I’ll read you the poem I wrote about it, and I hope someday you’ll write your own poem.

We find Jacob as he is going back to his cheated brother’s land. Esau is powerful now, so Jacob sends out scouts who are supposed to suck up to Esau by calling him “Lord” and saying Jacob is “your servant,” and such. They come back and say, “This brother (whom you cheated out of his birthright) is coming to meet you — and he’s bringing four hundred men.”

Not good news. Jacob, who has always been this cocksure scoundrel, is scared to death. So he divides his servants and herds and flocks into two groups and sends his family into yet a third so that if one of the groups gets attacked, the others can escape. It’s an act of desperation; he knows that whichever group is attacked has no chance, and in all likelihood, all three will be annihilated. He’s not going to risk it with any of them. (He probably figures that they’re too big a target.) So he sends them all away and camps by the River Jabbok. And he is alone in the night, with his cheated brother’s army closing in. Alone, to reflect, perhaps for the first time in his life, on the consequences of his actions.

Then, mysteriously, a man appears and wrestles with him until daybreak. We don’t know who or what the man is. The story is shrouded by the mist of the Jabbok.

But whatever or whoever this mysterious man is in the night, he is God by morning light. And, again mysteriously, he sees that he will not prevail against Jacob, so he puts Jacob’s hip out of joint. (Jacob is permanently injured.) Amazingly (really amazingly), Jacob still prevails, and pins the man and demands a blessing. The man instead renames him. ‘You shall no longer be called Jacob,” he says, “But Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.” Then he refuses to tell Jacob his name, but blesses him. So Jacob names the place Peniel, saying, “I have seen God face to face and lived.”

Quite a story. Here is the poem I wrote about it. It doesn’t do it justice, but I hope it will inspire you to write your own poem:

Jacob at the Jabbok

Jacob that you are—

Cheater, cheater!

Liar, liar!

Esau cheater.

Isaac liar.

Now your cheating makes you quiver,

now your lying burns like fire,

as you lie frightened by the river.

Jacob that you are—

Now no laughing, only fearing.

Now you hope to be restored

calling your cheated brother “Lord.”

But on he comes with thundering fury.

He will be your cheated jury.

Alone you stay, alone in fear,

now that judgment is finally here.

Jacob that you are—

Alone in the darkness, alone in the mist,

alone by the waters, alone with your past.

So now you wrestle.

Wrestle with whom?

Man or God or River Sprite?

Now you wrestle for your life.

Jacob that you are—

fierce when challenged.

Covered with darkness in the night

Covered with mud in the fight

Strength in spirit, strength in arm.

Your attacker wrestles in alarm.

Finally, you get the pin.

But do you really get the win?

Jacob that you are—

Touched by pain and limping.

Touched by almost winning.

But the victory can’t be taken;

the victory is in the giving.

Do you wrestle Man or God or River Sprite?

Or is it Jacob you wrestle in the night?

Is it yourself with whom you fight?

Jacob that you are —

Do you strive with liar, cheater,

now that you lie exposed by the river,

open to your past,

now that danger is closing fast?

Do you wrestle Jacob or God or River Sprite?

Whoever it was in the evening,

it is God by morning’s light.

Jacob that you are—

Who but you would demand to know

the name of him who fights you so?

Pinning God by morning light

to take another blessing

that is not your right?

To even God you are made bold,

To even God you grasp and hold.

Jacob that you are—

God’s name you are not getting,

for in losing he is winning.

Your name he shall give—

be “Israel” and live.

And let your limp remind you

that by wrestling and by losing,

God knows how to find you.

Jacob that you are—

Jacob that I am—

Do not we each see

That the one with whom I wrestle

Is in fact really me?

Do we not both wrestle

only to see with the morning light

that when we wrestle with ourselves,

God is somehow in the fight?

Jacob that you are—

Jacob that I am—

is there not a blessing

in the mud and sweat and wrestling?

Do we not both strive

for the naming of our lives?

Are we not both driven

for that which must be freely given?

Jacob that we are—

Let us thank our God

that we who would wrestle,

we who would almost win,

are made new by the naming

of a God who takes us in,

are crippled by the blessing

of a God who claims us again.

Jacob that we are—

Let us be thankful that our God

will wrestle in our mud,

swapping sweat and breath and blood,

so that by losing God may win,

naming and blessing and claiming again,

that as we limp through love and strife,

the Way of the Cross is the way of life.