Sermon for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, Year A (8-2-26)

None of us gets very far into this life before we discover that there are some things we cannot fix. There are losses we cannot reclaim, relationships we cannot force back together, and trying seasons that last far longer than we ever could have imagined.  Eventually — because of these inevitabilities —many of us find ourselves praying the same simple prayer: 

"Lord, change this."  

It’s a good prayer—a faithful prayer.Today Jacob comes to the Jabbok River praying exactly that same prayer. Because tomorrow he must face Esau, the brother he swindled twenty years ago. He’s been on the run ever since — understandably seeing as the last time they saw one another, Esau wanted Jacob dead.  

Now, Jacob hears his brother is approaching with four hundred men. He’s done everything he knows to do. He sends gifts ahead, divides his family into groups, and prepares for every possibility he can imagine. But eventually, there is nothing left to arrange. Tomorrow is still coming. 

That night Jacob is left alone by the river, and without warning a man begins wrestling with him. The text offers almost no explanation. It simply says they wrestled endlessly until daybreak. But it’s then, just before dawn, when the stranger touches his hip and instantly it’s put out of joint. And it’s in that moment perhaps Jacob realizes what has been true all along: this was never a fight he was going to win.  

Yet, he refuses to let go.  

Most of us know something about “nights” like that. A diagnosis arrives that no one expected. A marriage begins to unravel. A child walks away. Grief lingers long after everyone else assumes you've moved on.   Day after day we find ourselves praying the same prayer: "Lord, change this." But morning doesn't come as quickly as we'd hoped; certainly not as quickly as we’d like. 

"I will not let you go unless you bless me," Jacob grunts out to this mysterious man who while giving him a bit of a hard time, I think Jacob knows is also divine. 

"I will not let you go unless you bless me."  

That may be one of the most faithful prayers in all of Scripture. Jacob doesn't demand an explanation. He doesn't ask why this happened, or even ask for tomorrow to be different. He simply clings to God. 

The Church has a word for that kind of faith: long-suffering. Not because Christians enjoy suffering, or because suffering is inherently good or holy. Scripture never says that. Long-suffering is what faith looks like when the answer has not yet come. It’s the courage to remain in God's presence through the long night, trusting that God's work is not finished simply because we cannot yet see its totality. 

As dawn begins to break, Jacob's story changes. The stranger asks, "What is your name?"  

It seems like an unnecessary question. Surely God knows Jacob's name. But Jacob has spent much of his life pretending to be someone else. He stole his brother's blessing by claiming another identity and then spent years grasping for a future he thought he had to secure himself. Now, there is nowhere left to hide. This wrestling match has perhaps worn down his self-reliance and avoidance of honestly accepting his present condition.  

And for the first time in a long time, he simply tells the truth. 

"My name is Jacob." 

Notice that God doesn't erase Jacob's story; God begins with it.

"What is your name?"

Before there’s a new identity, there is an honest confession of the old one. God's grace is never built on pretending; God always begins with the truth.  And that’s Good News because it means God’s grace doesn't require us to become someone else before we come to God. It begins when we finally stop pretending to be someone else. 

“What is your name?”  

I wonder if that question is being asked of us today as well.  What reality do we need to stop denying? What burden do we need to stop carrying alone?  Christian discipleship doesn't begin with pretending we're stronger than we are. It begins by presenting our true selves before God, trusting that the One who knows our name is also the One who can give us a new one. 

Jacob’s renaming turns out also to be blessing: "You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel." Notice when God gives him that name. Not after he meets Esau. Not after everything works out. Not after Jacob proves himself worthy. Before. Before he crosses the river. Before the feared conversation. Before tomorrow. 

God declares who Jacob is before Jacob takes another step. Nothing outside Jacob has changed. Esau is still waiting, and the uncertainty is still real. Tomorrow is still coming. But everything that matters has changed, because Jacob no longer has to face tomorrow wondering whether he has to earn God's blessing or secure his own future. The blessing has already been spoken. He already belongs to God. 

That is what gives him the courage to cross the river. He walks into uncertainty not so much trying to become someone new, but trusting the One who has already named him. 

How often do we tell ourselves, “Once I get through this... then I'll be okay. If this all works out, then I'll trust God. Then I'll have peace.” It’s a natural thought process, but God so often works the other way around. God doesn't always remove the thing we fear before asking us to face it.  

Jacob still has to meet Esau. In fact, he goes to meet him with a limp. But he also goes with a new name— a blessing he did not earn— and the assurance that he belongs to God. That's enough for him to keep walking. 

Like Jacob, we're not called to cross into an uncertain tomorrow hoping to earn God's blessing there. We cross boldly because, in Jesus Christ, God has already crossed the river to meet us. We cross boldly because God's blessing is already with us. 

Perhaps that’s why this story has endured for so many generations.  

We come to God praying, "Lord, change this." Sometimes God does. Sometimes healing comes, reconciliation comes, or the burden is lifted. Never stop praying for those things. But sometimes God is answering that prayer more deeply than we realize. Sometimes, through the long night, God gives us a new way of seeing ourselves, a deeper trust in God's faithfulness, and a courage we did not know we possessed—not because the struggle is inherently good, but because God refuses to waste it. 

So, we continue to pray, "Lord, change this." And God takes that prayer seriously.  Sometimes God changes the circumstances. Sometimes God changes us.  And often, before anything else changes, God reminds us of who we are, and whose we are. 

Amen.