“Jacob called the place Peniel, saying, ‘For I have seen God face to face, yet my life is preserved.’ The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip.”(Genesis 32:30–31)

Parenting isn’t for the faint of heart.

There are so many moments that I remember with the distinct feeling that I was making it up as I went along and really wishing that children came with an instruction booklet. Something practical. Something like: When your toddler asks this particular question in this particular tone, do this. But no. Apparently, we’re all just handed tiny humans and expected to figure it out.

When one of my children was a toddler, we had one of those full-blown, “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing” moments.

This beautiful little child came out of their bedroom. The one we had carefully decorated with Sesame Street characters and stood in front of us with both hands behind their back. Very innocently, they asked, “Tell me again what happens when you play with electricity.”

Both Hugh and I moved very quickly.

We checked their hands. We checked the bedroom. We checked plugs, lamps, cords, toys; everything we could think of. And to this day, neither of us knows what actually happened. The child never told us. We were not even entirely sure that anything had happened. We just knew that the question gave us grounds for suspicion and hasty action.

No amount of questioning, reassurance, or parental analysis got us to the bottom of it. Our toddler remained silent about the circumstances.

And we don’t know why.

Maybe they had actually broken a safety rule. Maybe they had only been thinking about it. Maybe the silence came from defiance. Maybe it came from shame. Maybe there was simply nothing to confess. At two years old, perhaps they had just discovered the power of asking a question that could send both parents into a minor panic.

I do know that there were no further incidents of “playing with electricity” after that point; or at least, I don’t think there were. But sometimes I wonder whether the lesson learned was not, “Electricity is dangerous,” but “Never confess to your wrongdoings.”

So perhaps we taught caution. Or perhaps we taught sneakiness. Parenting is humbling that way.

We live in a very curated world right now, don’t we? We’re constantly encouraged to manage our appearance, edit our failures, and present ourselves as though we’re, literally, “without spot or blemish.” We’re invited to make our lives look polished and successful, to keep the difficult bits off-camera, and to quietly convince ourselves that we never need to change, grow, apologize, or reconsider anything that might get in the way of getting ahead.

But our faith tells a different story.

Enter Jacob.

I have to tell you: Jacob is one of my favourite biblical characters because he is such a royal mess-up. He is a liar. He is a cheat. He is a schemer. He spends a great deal of time trying to outsmart everyone around him, particularly when there is something in it for him.

He cheats his brother Esau out of his birthright. He deceives his father. He manipulates his family. He spends years in complicated relationships where nearly everyone is trying to get the better of everyone else. Jacob isn’t the person we would choose to be the polished founder of a great spiritual legacy.

And yet, God loves Jacob.

Not because Jacob is perfect. Not because Jacob gets everything right. Not because he has produced an impressive enough spiritual résumé.

God loves Jacob because God is God.

At this point in the story, Jacob is on the run, literally. He has made such a mess of his relationship with Esau that Esau, who is stronger and more powerful, is coming to meet him with four hundred men. Jacob is terrified. He sends gifts ahead. He sends servants ahead. He sends his wives and children ahead. He puts everything he loves between himself and the brother he has wronged.

And then Jacob is left alone.

That detail matters.

He is alone on the far side of the Jabbok River, with his fear, his guilt, his memories, and the very real possibility that his past is about to catch up with him. There is no clever plan left. No gift large enough. No servant available to negotiate. No carefully managed image that can protect him now.

And in the middle of that night, a man comes and wrestles with him until daybreak.

The story is mysterious. We don’t get a neat explanation of who this stranger is. Is it God? An angel? A dream? Is Jacob fighting his fear, his brother, his guilt, or all of it at once? The text doesn’t settle the question as neatly as we might like.

But maybe the identity of the stranger isn’t the most important thing.

What matters is that Jacob is changed by the encounter.

The struggle leaves him injured. His hip is put out of joint, and when the sun rises, Jacob walks away limping. He doesn’t emerge from this night as a superhero. He doesn’t get a glossy makeover. He doesn’t suddenly become someone who has never lied, cheated, feared, or failed.

He’s changed. But he’s also marked.

That’s often how our deepest encounters with God work.

We wrestle with grief, illness, betrayal, loneliness, regret, fear, or questions that refuse to go away. We want God to make it all tidy. We want the struggle to end with a clean answer and a triumphant photograph. But sometimes all we can do is hang on until morning.

Jacob does exactly that. He refuses to let go. “I will not let you go,” he says, “unless you bless me.”

And then comes the question: “What is your name?”

Jacob has spent much of his life hiding behind deception. Earlier in his story, when he stole Esau’s blessing, he pretended to be someone else. But now, in the darkness, wounded and afraid, he has to tell the truth.

“My name is Jacob.”

It is an act of honesty. Jacob names himself as he is: the trickster, the supplanter, the one who has grasped and grabbed his way through life. And God gives him a new name: Israel; one who struggles with God and with people.

Not perfect. Not untouched. Not invulnerable.

Israel.

The one who struggles and doesn’t let go.

There is something deeply pastoral in that. God doesn’t require Jacob to pretend that he has no wounds. God doesn’t ask him to erase his history or hide his limp. Instead, Jacob’s identity is transformed in the very place where he is most honest about who he has been.

Maybe that is the invitation for us too.

We don’t have to curate our way into God’s love. We don’t need to hide our questions, our fears, our grief, or our failures. We can tell the truth. We can come to God with our hands no longer hidden behind our backs.

And we can trust that even when the night is long, even when we leave with a limp, the sun still rises.

God meets us not in our perfected appearance, but in our honesty. So be vulnerable. Tell the truth. Let yourself be known. And when you cannot make sense of it all, hang on to God until morning.

Blessings and remember you are Loved.

~Rev Lynne

Audio file: https://audio.com/lynne-gardiner/audio/office-hours-limping-through-the-night