Suspended Beneath The Stars- Genesis 33

From the beginning these words have been prophetic. What is written here becomes true, and what is true has become written, because this is the Spirit within me. The Spirit is moving.

Our name is Israel.

Our story is written in the stars, which is why abundance is soon to be ours.

Our name is Israel, and so we are ashamed of the past, fearful of the future, and presently beloved and chosen by God. We are indeed the chosen ones, every one of us.

Dear Jacob, I set up camp with you, just outside the confines of Grace, a short distance away from shame.

We are somewhere in between. We are suspended in time and space, uncertain of the outcome.

We are uncertain not because of lies, because we are now too smart to believe those. Instead, we are uncertain because of hard truths- things about our past, realities about the present, possibilities for the future. We are stuck on these assumptions based on past experience: We will only belong if we make ourselves useful and follow all the rules. We will only feel loved if we feel needed.

Dear Jacob, I lie on my back in the grass next to you, gazing up at the stars in the dark of night and asking why. Why has it come to this? God why?

The truth of Grace does not factor in very nicely to this equation. It upsets our assumptions and turns them on their head. So we set up camp just beyond them, where we can observe and listen. We watch the stars for a sign.

And as we watch with wary and curious eyes, our familiarity with fear and shame is overshadowed by a nearby Truth which we observe from a safe distance. This upsetting Truth says that we belong and are valued simply because of our inherent divinity.

Our name is Israel and we are not convinced.

What does forgiveness really mean, anyways?

Unsure which truth to believe, we keep moving, always searching, never trusting. We camp outside of community because we do not trust it. Because the truth is, we only feel as good as our offer. Can we adhere to the necessary requirements? Do we abide by the legal structures of our religion? Will we conform to all the proprieties?

If success is not certain, we set up camp elsewhere, as that place from which we run will not feel safe to belong.

Our soul is like a wounded animal, hiding from healing and afraid to step out in trust.

I roam with Jacob, I avoid forgiveness, I consider alternatives. We camp between two truths, one that says our name means shame, the other which says our name means freedom. We are suspended in time beneath the stars.

In order to make sense of it all, here in the in-between, my life has become an eternal church service. This is a coping mechanism for my insecurity about my small contribution in a world driven by mass production.

I bring very little to the table, and what I bring does not change my name.

I am suspended in an eternal church service because it feels safe there. Since my journey to healing began, my entire life has converted to a Sunday morning. Day after day I worship. Day after day I doubt.

Day after day my story is written in the stars for all to see, full of abundant prophetic divinity.

Worship music, sermons, scripture, prayer. It’s constantly running in the background. Often there is a teacher in the background while I work- Garden Church, North Coast Church, Saddleback Church or Super Soul (yes, Oprah! Yes.). If it’s not a teacher, it’s a worship album- Bethel, Hillsong United, Jesus Culture, Elevation Worship- anything ethereal and full of divine longing.

Israel, are you listening? I am talking to you. This is your story, too.

I stake my claim on the outskirts of Grace and I worship, read, listen, write and pray alongside my brother Jacob. I compose a prophesy that will be vindicated by the Spirit of the universe, and the stars will illuminate the darkness and reveal the Spirit that moves powerfully within me.

We feel safe in this suspension of decision because we feel protected from scrutiny, here in this basecamp of cautious certainty.

While I fold laundry, wash dishes, make meals, write blogs, pick up toys, pack lunches and vacuum up eternal mounds of German Shepherd fur (will dogs shed in the Kingdom? Dear God!). Sunday morning is every morning in this place. It’s how I cope with hard truth. It’s how I observe Grace from a safe distance.

It’s how I process the resignations of certainty and security. My story is vindicated, but my story is unchanged. It is I who remain here, in this suspended place.

Our basecamp is located somewhere in the middle, between Grace and shame, and it’s full of curiosity and questions.

You will only belong in this world if you make yourself useful and follow all the rules. To be admitted into the inner sanctum you need to be needed. This is true in some religions. This is true in some churches.

Jacob and I have run from our homeland because the truth broke our spirits. And it will require a massive surrender of volition to trust this ridiculous and impetuous offer of Grace.

We prefer a truth we can stake our claim on: If you show the world what you contribute, your offering might make you worthy. You can bring something to the table in hopes that it will earn you the invitation into the next meeting. You might be allowed to belong if you measure up.

But you won’t, because this is not your destiny. The stars tell a different story.

Here in this basecamp of cautious observation, this is the place where we accumulate a wealth of excuses to stay away from either side. We are too wise to return to shame, but we are too smart to surrender to redemption.

And in the dark of night, as we lay on our backs looking up at the stars, listening to the distance sounds of two truths battling for our allegiance, we feel small, insignificant, and unwanted.

Our name is Israel. We are loved. We are chosen. We are afraid. What happens now? What are we fighting for?

The hard truth is, our contribution looks pathetic and everybody knows it. And so we pile up as many things between our camp and the threats on both sides- shame looms, Grace beckons.  

The more we are needed, the safer we feel. So we make ourselves as useful as we can be in this strange place, suspended in uncertainty, because where we feel needed, there we feel loved. So we try to make ourselves useful in the suspension in-between.

We lie on our backs, side by side on the cool sand, and we gaze upwards in silence, watching the universe unfold. We realize that our resilience cannot endure this suspension for eternity.

Grace beckons with the truth that my identity means I have already inherited the whole entire universe. Shame beckons with the promise that admittance can be earned.

But here on the outskirts, we have learned to feel safest in places where we contribute the most and make ourselves most useful.

It is time for the Spirit to move. Our story is unfolding now.

And so, like my brother Jacob, I face the unknown with everything I’ve got:

33 Then Jacob looked up and saw Esau coming with his 400 men. So he divided the children among Leah, Rachel, and his two servant wives.² He put the servant wives and their children at the front, Leah and her children next, and Rachel and Joseph last.

Our name is Israel and sometimes we are ashamed.

Beware the regret that threatens to poison your inheritance.

We stoop low before our debtors, as they have come to observe our debts.

³ Then Jacob went on ahead. As he approached his brother, he bowed to the ground seven times before him.

Seven times we admit our holy apology. Seven times we are so sorry.

As we inch slowly, crawling brokenly away from our basecamp under the stars, we encounter the first truth- we are met with Grace.

⁴ Then Esau ran to meet him and embraced him, threw his arms around his neck, and kissed him. And they both wept.

The arms of grace receive our tears. We are forgiven. We are forgiven. We are Israel and we are forgiven.

And for a moment time stands still and all is well. The stars shine over our radiant hearts.

We fall into the truth of Grace

and shed tears of relief.

But we are human, and our name is Israel. And forgiveness is a threat to certainty, so it is difficult to accept. We falter, here in this embrace.

⁵ Then Esau looked at the women and children and asked, “Who are these people with you?”

We have brought all our qualifications to negotiate with the impossible truth of Grace.

Because we recall the past experience which invades this embrace- belonging must be earned. How can it be any other way? It is a ticket that must be purchased, an admittance that must be approved. Forgiveness cannot be free! We don’t dare to fathom the depth of love before us.

Our experience has taught us that we cannot step foot into the inner sanctum without following the rules and conforming to the labels. We have been trained to believe that we are not allowed a seat at the table until we are clean.

We can’t imagine that this truth of Grace will endure the test of time- we only feel safe to belong if we feel certain to be needed.

So we try to earn the gift. We try to buy the blood.

“These are the children God has graciously given to me, your servant,” Jacob replied.

The truth of shame says that when we enter the space of potential acceptance, we must be sure to impress.

⁸ “And what were all the flocks and herds I met as I came?” Esau asked.

Grace asks us why we brought all this pomp and circumstance.  The truth of shame says that we must work to earn our name.

So we offer gifts instead of words, because we don’t know what to say.

The stars observe our striving.

Jacob replied, “They are a gift, my lord, to ensure your friendship.

We offer the very best of our unworthiness, because the truth is we are small and weak and the whole world knows it.

And Grace trys to tell us to keep our blessings and prepare for more. Keep that which remains and make room for abundance. Because the truth is that Grace is a secret purveyor of magical things.

⁹ “My brother, I have plenty,” Esau answered. “Keep what you have for yourself.”

But we hear the voice of shame, and freedom is not part of that equation.

We want to purchase our own forgiveness. We keep trying to produce more reasons why.

We strive to belong, we strain to feel loved.

¹⁰ But Jacob insisted, “No, if I have found favor with you, please accept this gift from me. And what a relief to see your friendly smile. It is like seeing the face of God! 

Ah yes, we have seen this Face before- in a dream. When we wrestled with God, when we were bent

on holding onto the physical because we could not grasp the spiritual.

And God had said to us then “Let go of me, because how much more I will accomplish living inside you than I would walking beside you!” He asked Jacob to let go of the Man. He asked the disciples to let go of the Savior. He asks us to let go of our basecamp of pomp and circumstance.

Yes, we have seen this Face before. This Face gave us a new name, holy and beloved.

We are learning to look up, up, up at the stars,

Jacob and I.

We search the entire shining galaxy for one reason to trust this ridiculous and impetuous Grace.

¹¹ Please take this gift I have brought you, for God has been very gracious to me. I have more than enough.” And because Jacob insisted, Esau finally accepted the gift.

Finally He consents to our fears and tells us yes, that’s OK. My child, be still. The truth is that Grace will meet us where we are at today, no matter how far away that is from the place we once called home.

And then it beckons for us to return, because our name is Israel and our abundance will exceed that of the stars in the sky. Our inheritance is the entire galaxy. Eternity is within our very being.

¹² “Well,” Esau said, “let’s be going. I will lead the way.”

But we couldn’t accept such a generous offer as that. Not today. It just wouldn’t feel merited, it wouldn’t feel safe. There is no guarantee in this holy charity.

We don’t trust forgiveness. We trust earning. We want to stay camped nearer the voice of shame because it has guided us so far and for so long.

We make our excuses. We have so many reasons why. Such a strong case in our defense.

God, but the stars see, and our story goes on for all eternity.

¹³ But Jacob replied, “You can see, my lord, that some of the children are very young, and the flocks and herds have their young, too. If they are driven too hard, even for one day, all the animals could die.

I can’t walk that way, God, it’s too hard. Please try to understand. I’m not coming with you, Lord. Not there.

We have come too far not to defend our basecamp, the one which lies somewhere between the truth of Grace and shame, the one suspended between two truths, far beneath the stars.

We make empty promises which are easy to keep because they are vague and contain so many legitimate loopholes. We have learned this from those who came before us, our broken ancestors, our imperfect leaders.

We have all the right words, but the starlight shines right through them, and everybody knows it.

¹⁴ Please, my lord, go ahead of your servant. We will follow slowly, at a pace that is comfortable for the livestock and the children. I will meet you at Seir.”

And Grace respects our indecision.

It offers to walk with us back to our basecamp and talk about it.

Grace will not abandon us in our time of brokenness.

¹⁵ “All right,” Esau said, “but at least let me assign some of my men to guide and protect you.”

Then shame steps in to warn us that we could never accept such an offer- we cannot depend on charity. We have been let down before, why start believing now?

We trust Grace to save our soul for eternity, but not to change our earthly address.

Living out under the stars between the conflicting truths about our identity, this place is comfortable and safe, untouched by either passion or risk.

We kindly thank Him but shake our head no, not today, Lord. It’s too soon. Twenty years would not be enough, we need more time, more time, more time. More time to heal. More time to grow. More time to interpret the glowing hieroglyphics in the night sky.

Jacob responded, “That’s not necessary. It’s enough that you’ve received me warmly, my lord!”

I know enough to stay away from the truth of shame, that place where I come from. But I don’t know enough yet to follow the voice of Grace back home.

We are suspended in the middle. It feels safer that way. We will camp out under the stars and dream about redemption, but we will not yet surrender to reality.

It’s all talk. For now, anyways.

¹⁶ So Esau turned around and started back to Seir that same day. 

Our name is Israel and this story is written for the entire universe to read. And our resignation is the pivotal moment of a holy alteration in our divine trajectory.

Nobody is required to walk with Grace. If we say no, well, Jesus is a gentleman and won’t impose Himself.

Like that lovely line in Polar Express, “Nobody is required to see Santa.”

We must learn to trust the truth of our name, Jacob and I. The stars in the sky reveal that even though our name is Israel and we are fearful and ashamed, our name is Israel and we are loved and accepted. We are safe to belong everywhere, because the entire universe and the expanse of the night sky all belong to Him who blessed us.

Unsure which truth to believe, we keep moving, always searching, never trusting. Stargazing on our lonely hill, suspended in uncertainty.

¹⁷ Jacob, on the other hand, traveled on to Succoth. There he built himself a house and made shelters for his livestock. That is why the place was named Succoth (which means “shelters”).

We build our shelters under the stars, a collection of doubts and fears housed in dreams of peace.

We can still hear the voices on one side which warn us to remember that we are only as good as what we offer. Labels and conformity equate belonging.

Religion wounds, reality bites, resignation heals.

We can also hear the voices on the other side which beckon us to come closer and receive. We are curious but not convinced. We watch the signs in the sky for more reasons why.

¹⁸ Later, having traveled all the way from Paddan-aram, Jacob arrived safely at the town of Shechem, in the land of Canaan. There he set up camp outside the town.

And as we dwell here in the in-between, there are some days when we think we have our name figured out.

We settle into our patterns of knowing. We tell Grace to please just meet us on the other side, thank you very much.

But this suspended place of solitude is the end of a chapter, not the end of a story.

This is the end of a chapter, not the end of a story. Look up if you don’t believe me. Lie on your back next to me in the dark of night and gaze at the lights and wait for a sign.

We are shedding something precious because we are growing up. This is good.

We will gradually move closer to Grace and further from shame, step by step, inch by inch, at the pace of a blind beggar full of stubborn doubt and weary fear, hungry for things made of stars.

Our name is Israel and we know it deep down in our bones, in the royal place inside that retains dignity and holiness despite our effort to ignore it.

¹⁹ Jacob bought the plot of land where he camped from the family of Hamor, the father of Shechem, for 100 pieces of silver.^[a] 20 And there he built an altar and named it El-Elohe-Israel.^[b]

God, the God of Israel.

Our God, the one who names us holy and righteous and redeemed.

We both have sacred altars to our God, my dear brother Jacob and I.

We both have abundance written in the night sky.

This is because we are ashamed and foolish.

This is also because we are beloved and chosen by God.

Our name is a holy, our name is hard. Our name is full of pain and prophetic stars. It is a contradictory truth suspended in the place of solitude between shame and Grace.

We fall in line with the broken ancestors of our past and the wounded prisoners of war of our present, and together we lie on our backs on the cool night sand and read the starry sky for a sign of the vision for our abundant future. We lift our eyes up, up, up to ask for all the reasons why. Why? Why?

Today is not a victory. We have walked away from a holy offer. But today was one step closer to Grace- it was a conversation that ended in a long distance relationship. We may not join in physical communion with our community, my brother and I, but we join the entire universe in gazing at the same constellations that pierce our common darkness. This is prophetic hope.

Here begins the transformation of a broken life into an eternal church service, the kind that is full of singing and listening and stargazing and curiosity from afar.

The suspension between two truths is a place of character development and heart repair. It is a place for silent star-gazing and reflection, an interpretation of the golden hieroglyphics that rise above our fears.

We build an altar in this suspended place in order to have a haven from the conflicting voices that vie for our allegiance.

And truthfully, there are some really hard truths we tell ourselves in the dark of night: I am unnecessary, small, insignificant, unwanted. I failed.

We lie on our backs and gaze at the vastness of the universe and realize that the hard truth is this: our contribution is meaningless, and both sides know it.

And so we pile up as many things between ourselves and revelation as humanly possible. The more we are needed, the more we serve, the safer we feel.

But on the other side of that line of Grace which is still a ways off, the God of Israel has a higher truth for us, one which turns the meaning of our name upside down on its head.

We are learning we cannot earn true Love. We are learning that True Love respects us when we say “no”. When is good enough going to be good enough? Not until good enough looks perfect, or so we think. The stars will wait patiently for our revelation.

It seems impossible to believe the voice that says my greatest contribution is my entire holy being, which is eternal and timeless and exists outside of the realm of religious legalism and human failure.

Our name is Israel and so we are foolish. But our name is Israel and so our inheritance is a black canvas dotted with luminescent points of an ever-shifting trajectory.

And truthfully, we don’t need to offer anything at all. Grace says “yes, beloved, I will meet you where you are right now. Come walk with me, and let’s journey together from this suspended place of uncertainty. Let me show you the stars from another point of view.”

We are allowed to take as long as we need to accept the truth that we are worthy from the inside out, not the other way around. We must remember that if we are looking for reasons that we do not belong with Him, we will always find them. Those reasons cannot surmount the higher truth of Grace.

Our name is Israel, Jacob and I, and we are in delayed transit to move forward from the suspension of solitude. This is a journey which takes many years and many detours to work out- the truth is that we are loved not because of what we do, but because of who we are.

We could serve for a lifetime and never understand. This is our moment, this is our story. With the stars as our witness. He knows. God sees. He is proud of us even in the failing.

He can do so much more within us than He can beside us- but He is willing to walk with us in the other direction and talk about it. He is willing to wait from a distance away while we gaze longingly at the stars. Take as many detours as you need. He has an entire eternity to convince us of the depth of His love.

And one day we will rise up into His love like burning lights in the sky, illuminating a persuasive abundance of truth that says we are beloved and we all belong.

May every human being be peaceful and happy, even those like Jacob and I who are suspended in places of illuminated uncertainty.

Our name is written in the stars, which is why abundance is soon to be ours.

Peace to you, Israel. God will bless us both.

Amen and amen.

~*~

With deepest gratitude

for my tiny tribe of readers-

Rebecca

To read Pearls and Presence, click here.

To read my story, click here.

The Consumption of Crumbs- Genesis 25, 27

We were born into this fight, my brother Esau and I.

I look at the Scriptures and I see how it’s easier to crawl under the table and consume the crumbs than it is to stand and be seen and demand to be blessed in the hard place.

I sit down slowly across from God and I throw my burdens down on the table, all of them, and I point my finger and I demand a reckoning.

This is anger.

We keep giving God the pain of the present moment, but what He also wants are our hurts from the past.

The broken, tender and untouched places that we cover up.

Most anger has roots that go back to our first day on this wounded planet, when we were born into a disadvantage that was never ours to choose.

Ours is always second place, even when we are sure we will come out on top.

We hoard and protect our brokenness because it gives us great power- the power to beg, cry, weep, accuse and cover up our wounds with offense. The power to avoid healing.

Anger disguises our fear of being born into a 

starving world filled with lack.

We barter with our Creator for the crumbs from His table, when really, there is a place set for us right next to Him. But instead we crawl around on our hands and knees, weeping and asking for even a tiny remnant of our brothers’ blessings.

What we need to do is stand up, brush the dust off our knees, take a seat directly across from God, look Him straight in the eye, shake our finger and determine to be blessed in the broken place.  We need to slide our pain across the table and tell Him to take it all back.

He wants us to give our anger to Him, so that He can heal it.

So let’s get up off the ground where we consume the broken crumbs of lost dreams. It is time to toil and labor for a crop of well-worn, hard-learned wisdom.

This week I was reminded that the Bible is a complicated mess.

Confession- I am starting to fall in love with all the broken misfits in Scripture.

So far this year I have walked with Cain, Hagar, and Abraham’s servant. This week I had the privilege of meeting Esau.

His story is delicious.

Esau is one whose brother wronged him, deceived him, and took away the things that should have been his. Esau also made the terrible mistake of showing careless contempt for his own birthright. He threw it all away without realizing.

He was born into a world full of opposition and lies, where love is war.

Love is war.

And the temptation is to hate that brother whose abundance exposes our lack. And we stick around and scheme while desperately consuming the crumbs of others success.

Some of us are like Esau. We cry ““Oh God, give me one blessing to hold onto, just one. That’s all I ask now. Is there anything left of what I thought I wanted in this place? I’m starving.”

See, us God, here on our knees crying for leftovers. Begging for the opportunity that was never ours to have.

We are angry at You, God 

for putting this hunger in our heart.

We inherit the strife of our ancestors, the ones who snuck in through the backdoor of Scripture. The ones who aren’t qualified to be there. The ones who lose everything because of stupid mistakes and revealed unhealed brokenness.

God. These are my people.

And we did not ask for this- it was handed to us from birth. Ours is an inheritance of human flaws and failure. This is unfair.

God. I’m angry.

We demand a reckoning.

But if someone shows you who you really are, 

remember that they are probably right.

I stand in line with all the misfits of Scripture, my beloved messy ancestors. We are a broken race of image-bearers. Our stories are the ones that won’t get a place of honor. These are the stories that nobody wants to share, the ones best left to their own devices.

To lay claim to the lineage of Esau is to be overlooked circumstantially.

This is nobody’s fault, really, except

 the fault of the entire Universe.

And we are afraid to aim our hate at the Almighty Creator.

So instead, we aim it at each other.

And then we weep because we are starving for love.

The seed of these hungry beggar tears is anger. It lays the table for all subsequent events to come. We water this seed as we bide our time here, hoping helplessly for a fresh outpouring of blessing while settling for scraps from around the feet of blind superiors who dine above us.

All the things that made Esau feel small and disadvantaged from birth were handed to him by the Universe without consulting his opinion. He was dropped into his life without any say about his own introduction.

Esau faced insignificance

from his first day on earth.

So pull up a seat and let’s read Esau’s story together now, shall we?

Genesis 25:

“Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was unable to have children. The Lord answered Isaac’s prayer and Rebekah became pregnant with twins. But the two children struggled with each other in her womb. So she went to ask the Lord about it. ‘Why is this happening to me?’ She asked. And the Lord told her, ‘The sons in your womb will become two nations. From the very beginning, the two nations will be rivals. One nation will be stronger than the other; and your older son will serve your younger son.’ And when the time came to give birth, Rebekah discovered that she did indeed have twins! The first one was very red at birth and covered with thick hair like a fur coat. So they named him Esau (hair). Then the other twin was born with his hand grasping Esau’s heel. So they named him Jacob (heel/deceiver)."

--v21-26

This is where the struggle begins- Esau is born into a circumstance he did not choose but which chose him, and his world is defined by lack-

there is not enough love to go around.

We are small, unknowing, and so young.

We adapt.

We avoid.

We excuse ourselves from the table and step outside.

“As the boys grew up, Esau became a skillful hunter. He was an outdoorsman, but his brother Jacob had a quiet temperament, preferring to stay at home.” v28

We don’t ask questions, we just move through the situation as best we can with what we know so far, which is very little.

We observe the world around us.

“Isaac loved Esau because he enjoyed eating the wild game Esau brought home, but Rebekah loved Jacob.” v28

And though we are children, we are becoming aware that we must either produce or quickly consume whatever crumbs that we can.

We must be the strong one and let others take the seat of honor.

We internalize the pain.

This is a world of lack, and so

we put on a protective mask of apathy.

We become cynical and careless.

We self-sabotage.

“One day when Jacob was cooking some stew, Esau arrived home from the wilderness exhausted and hungry. Esau said to Jacob, ‘I’m starved! Give me some of that red stew!’ ‘All right,’ Jacob replied, ‘but first trade me your rights as the firstborn son.’” ’Look, I’m dying of starvation!’ said Esau. ‘What good is my birthright to me now?’ But Jacob said, ‘First you must swear that your birthright is mine.’ So Esau swore an oath, thereby selling all his rights as the firstborn to his brother, Jacob. Then Jacob gave Esau some bread and lentil stew. Esau ate the meal, then got up and left. He showed contempt for his rights as the firstborn.” 

--v29-34

And now at the table that the Universe has laid, our insecurities become the centerpiece.

We feast on “it’s complicated”, sticky-sweet dishes that we cannot identify but which wound and defeat us slowly from within, without our conscious awareness. Meals without nourishment.

This is where all Creation serves up harsh reality in abundance.

It is the people closest to Esau that become the greatest teachers of his pain.

“One day when Isaac was old and turning blind, he called for Esau, his older son, and said, ‘My son.’ ‘Yes, Father?’ Esau replied. ‘I am an old man now,’ Isaac said, ‘and I don’t know when I may die. Take your bow and a quiver full of arrows, and go out into the open country to hunt some wild game for me. Prepare my favorite dish, and bring it here for me to eat. Then I will pronounce the blessing that belongs to you, my firstborn son, before I die.'"

--27 v1-4

We leave the table and go outside, where we can often be found, because it’s just easier that way.

We give up our seat of honor, completely unaware of the cost.

“But Rebekah overheard what Isaac had said to his son Esau. So when Esau left to hunt for the wild game, she said to her son Jacob, ‘Listen. I overheard your father say to Esau, "Bring me some wild game and prepare me a delicious meal. Then I will bless you in the Lord’s presence before I die." Now, Jacob, listen to me. Do exactly as I tell you. Go out to the flocks, and bring me two fine young goats. I’ll use them to prepare your father’s favorite dish. Then take the food to your father so he can eat it and bless you before he dies.’” --27 v5-10

And minding our own business, while aiming our arrows at innocent beings in the distance, we’ve no idea that our birthright is being taken from us at that very moment.

Others are in discussion about us behind our backs, determining our fate and preparing our demotion. 

And those who decide our fate, they are blind to reality.

We lift the bow and arrow, narrow our gaze, find the perfect target, and release.

And our inheritance is destroyed while we are away shooting at small game.

“Then she took Esau’s favorite clothes, which were there in the house, and gave them to her younger son, Jacob. She covered his arms and the smooth part of his neck with the skin of the young goats. Then she gave Jacob the delicious meal, including freshly baked bread. So Jacob took the food to his father, ‘
My father?’ he said. 
‘Yes, my son,’ Isaac answered. ‘Who are you- Esau or Jacob?’ 
Jacob replied, ‘It’s Esau, your firstborn son. I’ve done as you told me. Here is the wild game. Now sit up and eat it so you can give me your blessing.’ 
Isaac asked, ‘How did you find it so quickly, my son?’ 
‘The Lord your God put it in my path!’ Jacob replied. 
Then Isaac said to Jacob, ‘Come closer so I can touch you and make sure that you really are Esau.’ 
So Jacob went closer to his father, and Isaac touched him.
'The voice is Jacob’s, but the hands are Esau’s,’ Isaac said. 
But he did not recognize Jacob, [because he was blind]. So Isaac prepared to bless Jacob. 
‘But are you really my son Esau?’ He asked. ‘
Yes, I am,’ Jacob replied.  
And when Isaac caught the smell of his clothes, he was finally convinced, and he blessed his son.” 
v15-27

The seed of self-sabotage, planted so long ago before we were even born, has now taken root and grown beyond our control. This is the moment when we reckon with our past, regret our choices, and grasp desperately for our future.

We enter the room totally unaware of what is about to pass. We are proud of what we bring to the table. Our innocence is our undoing.

Our ignorance is about to be consumed.

“As soon as Isaac had finished blessing Jacob, and almost before Jacob had left his father, Esau returned from his hunt. Esau prepared a delicious meal and brought it to his father. Then he said, ‘Sit up, my father, and eat my wild game so you can give me your blessing.’ But Isaac asked him ‘Who are you’ Esau replied, ‘It’s your son, your firstborn son, Esau.’ Isaac began to tremble uncontrollably and said, ‘Then who just served me wild game? I have already eaten it, and I blessed him just before you came. And yes, that blessing must stand!’” 

v30-33

The blessing is gone forever.

It’s gone.

So we deny the truth.

We still desperately believe that we can change the past.

“When Esau heard his father’s words, he let out a loud and bitter cry. ‘Oh my father, what about me? Bless me, too!’ he begged. But Isaac said, ‘Your brother was here and tricked me. He has taken away your blessing.’ Esau exclaimed, ‘No wonder his name is Jacob (deceiver), for now he has cheated me twice. First he took my rights as the firstborn, and now he has stolen my blessing. Oh, haven’t you saved even one blessing for me?’” 

v36

Oh God, give me one blessing to hold onto, just one. That’s all I ask now- a crumb! Is there anything left for me here? Not even the scraps from the table?

If sheer will-power could erase the regret, all would not be lost.

So we strive against the forces of fallen nature.

“Isaac said to Esau, ‘I have made Jacob your master and have declared that all his brothers will be his servants. I have guaranteed him an abundance of grain and wine- what is left for me to give you, my son?’” v37

Those who have hurt us, they are so very sorry, but it’s not really their fault. After all, they are blind, so it couldn't be helped.

It’s the fault of the Universe-

the loss is circumstantial.

Yet the holy part of us, the piece of our soul that knows it bears the image of the Creator, the royal and divine essence of our being, that voice inside us rises up and demands a reckoning.

Esau pleaded, ‘But do you have only one blessing? Oh my father, bless me, too!’ Then Esau broke down and wept.” v38

We are broken. Oh my God.

We were born into this fight,

my brother Esau and I.

The opposite of love is not hate. The opposite of love is apathy.

To be unseen is the ultimate form of dehumanization.

So we kneel and beg for a remnant. We wait for a handout. We try to give sight to the blind.

But the blessing we receive is not going to be what we hoped for.

"Finally, his father, Isaac, said to him, ‘You will live away from the richness of the earth, and away from the dew of the heaven above. You will live by your sword, and you will serve your brother. But when you decide to break free, you will shake his yoke from your neck.’” v39-40

We did not choose this.

We are angry, but we hide our anger from God and give it to our brothers instead.

And anger is the reason we stick around and scheme.

We plot and war against our brothers to cover up our wounds inflicted by the circumstances of the Universe, the wounds inflicted by our own contemptuous choices and masks of apathy.

“From that time on, Esau hated Jacob because their father had given Jacob the blessing. And Esau began to scheme: ‘I will soon be mourning my father’s death. Then I will kill my brother, Jacob.” v41

And so Esau will not see his brother for twenty years. They must part ways for all that time, because forgiveness is a process that cannot be rushed.

Reconciliation is a long hard journey, not a destination.

It takes time, so much time to heal.

Forgiveness takes a lifetime.

So for a long while afterwards we hoard and protect our anger, clutching it to our hearts, because it gives us great power- the power to beg, cry, weep, accuse and cover up our brokenness.

Hatred disguises our fear of being born into a fearful world full of lack.

And it has come to this- we hang around and barter with our superiors for the crumbs from their table.

And they are unseeing, blind to our plight- it is not their fault that they are blind, and they are so very sorry.

But the blessing is gone.

In the grief shall we miss the opportunity that is rising up from the ashes of defeat?

What is this strange poetry that we have been given?

Isaacs’ blessing leaves more than crumbs to grasp upon- there is a richness here, a hard-worn hope that stands out in stark contrast against Esaus’ weeping.

~*~

“You will live away from the richness of the earth, and away from the dew of the heaven above.”

This is the blessing of searching inwards.

First the thoughts will rove through a hard wilderness of denial, keeping far away from either the heights of joy or the depth of hurt.

We will retreat to consider our options. Our thoughts will wander among the remnants of the past. We will need to fight for purpose and meaning, rather than receive them effortlessly. Any nourishing thing we consume in this place will require the hard labor of effort and persistence, endurance and maturity.

~*~

“You will live by your sword, and you will serve your brother.”

This is the blessing of love as war.

Our thoughts will be volatile for a time and we will cast blame on others, enslaved to all the stages of grief.

We will need time to grieve- to pass fully through all the stages of sorrow and loss. This cannot be rushed or forced- it must be endured patiently and consciously. We must honor the pain of lost love. We have trusted and been hurt, but we can trust again. But first we must allow ourselves to be angry and grapple with what our anger means. We must face down our demons in order to defeat them. This internal warfare is the eventual path to acceptance, as we begin to face the reality of what cannot be undone.

~*~

“But when you decide to break free, you will shake his yoke from your neck.”

This is the blessing of freedom from offense.

When we forgive, we will victoriously rise above the grief.

The servitude to suffering is temporary, should we choose to do the long hard work and make a conscious change. If we can learn to adapt to the wilderness of regret, learn the discipline of forgiveness, wage warfare against hate, then we can break free from the angry and offended thoughts. But we must get up from where we now crawl around on our hands and knees, weeping and asking for even a tiny remnant of our brother’s blessings. This is the place of letting go.

We must release our pain through forgiveness of self and others.

But how do we know if we have truly forgiven?

Because our view of the world is no longer filtered through the past. We stop striving to change what has already happened. We accept the loss, we dwell in it, we make peace with it.

~*~

Someday we will fully forgive .

This is the blessing we are given now.

~*~

That brother who has wronged Esau, deceived him, taken away the things that should have been his. That brother who took away his blessed future, his very existence now tempts Esau to hate and scheme and strive.

We will someday have the strength and healing necessary to forgive- and therefore we are blessed.

This is the brother whose crumbs of success we are tempted to follow after and consume.

But this brother, the one who hurt us, he has his own story to tell, and it's a perspective to which we ourselves are blind.

The blind cannot lead the blind.

And so we must let him go in order to break free.

Our stories must diverge

in order to heal.

We must accept where we are today without criticism.

We must say goodbye to the past.

I am drawn to the story of Esau because I have inherited his spirit. These are my people, my ancestors, my birthright fathers and mothers- Cain, Hagar, Esau. The broken, doubting and angry ones- those who search for belonging. The outcast, the overlooked, the less-than, the small minions moving the plot along in the hidden background.

We feel so small because our stories go unseen-

but we are not invisible.

Here in Scripture are all the stories nobody else would tell except for God Himself- stories of the unseen, the forgotten, the ones whose thoughts rove through a barren wilderness, engage in warfare with hate and anger, and then break free through the power of forgiveness after a long hard struggle.

God gives me and my people a stage and a microphone, a social media platform and a pulpit, and He is our audience and His presence fills the entire auditorium. He sits in every pew, every chair, takes every seat. He listens intently and reads our every word. He hangs onto every sentence, supporting and encouraging and being present with us as we heal.

He does not abandon us in our time of vulnerability. 
Jesus will never send us away from His table.
He saves a special seat for his beloved.

He loves all of it, especially the uncomfortable chapters of our story that nobody else wants to touch. He is not threatened at all. He is enraptured with our stories- He values them for the treasures they truly are.

He cares deeply and truly about every word we think, write or speak.

And after we are done telling everything we ever needed to say, with a standing ovation and thunderous applause, God puts out a hand, smiles into our eyes and extends the invitation to you and to myself-

"I am so proud of you.

Now give to Me your anger and your pain,

beloved."

Because somewhere inside we must admit- we are angry at Him for our being born into a broken world filled with lack.

And there is nobody to blame, really, except the entire Universe which conspired against us from before the birth of our story.

We were born into this fight, my brother Esau and I.

I look at the Scriptures and see how it’s easier to crawl under the table and consume the crumbs than it is to stand and be seen and demand to be blessed with forgiveness in the hard place.

I want to fight for my blessing of forgiveness in the way Esau did- brazen, broken, desperate, determined and vulnerable.

Somewhere along the line I lost track of which things are

 my fault and which faults belong to others. 

It all gets muddled up in the scraping and striving.

And He asks us, “Give me your anger, child, give it to me. Let me transform it for you. Stop consuming crumbs around the feet of unseeing superiors. Set down your anger, push it across the table and give it all to Me. I want all of it.”

We can consume the broken crumbs of lost dreams or we can get up off the floor to work and labor for a crop of well-worn wisdom.

My friends, today let’s settle down into this wilderness where we have been roving. Let us begin to wage war against the lies we tell ourselves, and begin to break free from pretending the past can be any different than it already is.

When we learn to draw nourishment from the hard place where we dwell here and now, then we will no longer have a taste for the broken crumbs of regret.

And someday we will dine together with those who have hurt us, the broken misfits with embarrassing stories, and those who are blind. We will come together as brothers and sisters who are lacking nothing, bringing an abundance to the feast, because

we are all welcomed

to consume the blessing of forgiveness as equals

around the table of our King.

Cheers, my tiny tribe of readers! A toast to the lifelong journey of reconciliation.

Consume His promises today and be fully satisfied.

May all beings be peaceful and happy. Amen.

~*~

With deepest gratitude for all my readers-

Rebecca

To read Pearls and Presence, click here.

To read my story, click here.