Nighttime Wrestling & Name Calling.
The first year I was married, God nearly killed me.
Well, that’s not entirely accurate. But that’s what it felt like.
I was serving as a youth pastor at a church in Torrance, and I felt this uneasiness, this restlessness, in my soul—as if I was supposed to be somewhere else. But I wasn’t sure, so I asked God for a sign, and a few months later that church I was serving with went through some issues and it came time for me to leave. And later my wife and I felt like God was leading us to this specific church in Orange County, and so I told God that if he was going to take us there, I’d need a job, and, oh, by the way, it had to be full-time and relatively quiet and could I also finish my master’s degree while still making a full-time wage?
“No problem.”
And God shrugged and said, “No problem.”
A month later, the week before my time at the church was up, I had myself a new job at an office nearby and two days out of the week I commuted up to Pasadena to finish my master’s degree. So my wife and I found ourselves at the church that would eventually become our new home. And the last thing that God said to me, in a firm and loving way, was: “Don’t do any ministry until I tell you.”
And I shrugged and said, “No problem.”
I really enjoyed my first month. I was growing a lot, the work was not too demanding, I felt like I was heading somewhere. And then, after that first month, I found myself getting fidgety. I never realized how much it meant for me to be known by a title or a position—to be at a church without being someone who had a task or not knowing where I belonged. I found myself scrambling and stuttering to find conversation pieces apart from, “How was this past week for you?” And “What are you doing next week?” And after awhile the social anxiety got to me. It was like I was an addict that got my high from moving chairs and serving at church. The moment service ended, when most people would get up and chat amiably with people next to them or make plans for where to eat afterwards, I was already on my hands and knees, crawling around the sanctuary looking for bits of trash to collect and throw away. No kidding, it was that bad. (I’m almost positive that some people thought that I was especially passionate about clean carpets.)
It went on like this for a year.
It felt like an eternity.
And the funny thing was that during this time, all of these opportunities from my old life would come out of nowhere. I had three separate couples ask me to officiate their weddings—never mind the fact that I never had officiated a wedding in my life—and then positions started opening up. Did I know anyone who needed a pastor position somewhere? Was I interested in being the leader of this ministry? And everything in me wanted to scream, “Yes!” But I knew what God had said, so through gritted teeth and faked smiles I said, “No.” And in that season, it was almost as if everything had been painted gray. Food all tasted the same. I knew things were bad when I found myself playing The Sims for hours on end; when you’re playing a virtual game watching someone else eat and sleep and work and live their life, it’s a hint that you’ve hit rock bottom.
One day, while I was getting ready, I felt the Lord speak to me again. Not in a thunderous shout, but in a quiet whisper. And he said to me, “Isaac, if you could never do any sort of church work or ministry again, would I be enough for you?”
And that was a really tough question. In the morning hours, I found myself wrestling and wondering and projecting and imagining as I got dressed for my office job. My mind wandered as I combed my hair. Because the simple truth in my mind I was unwilling to admit to myself was that in the past, I admired the glamour and title of what God offered me, rather than God himself. And what God was inviting me into was the willingness to enter into a life without the tasks and glamour and glory, but with him. And so I found myself telling God, “Yes. You are more than enough for me.”
And then he fell silent. But what was strange was the shift in me. It was as if color was being brushed onto my world again. I found myself developing friendships, learning how to confess my sins, enjoying my humanity. My marriage got stronger. My faith grew deeper. I began to see God in a different way—not as someone who could do something for me, but as someone worth living for. It was as if I emerged from the wilderness: bruised and broken, but changed. Different, even.
And I could feel my breaths becoming stronger, deeper.
It was as if I was coming alive.
There’s a story in the book of Genesis about a man named Jacob, whose name literally translates to “liar” or “deceiver.” And Jacob lives up to his name: he deceives his blind father to steal his brother Esau’s blessing, and when his brother comes in famished, Jacob trades a bowl of stew for Esau’s birthright. And after awhile his life of deception catches up to him and he runs away somewhere else—gets married, has kids, grows wealthy. And later word comes to Jacob that Esau wants to meet with him, so Jacob sends his families (that’s right, plural) away and suddenly finds himself wrestling through the night with a mysterious man, who asks to be let go near daybreak. But Jacob being Jacob, he demands a blessing from the man, who gives him a new name: “Your name is no longer Jacob,” he says. “From now on it’s Israel (God-Wrestler); you’ve wrestled with God and you’ve come through.”
“You’ve wrestled with God and you’ve come through.”
Jacob wrestles with God and finds himself broken, but with a new name.
No longer known for what he does, but rather for who he knows.
He’s bruised and irreversibly changed, but for the better.
I believe that many times, God invites us into seasons where we find ourselves going through struggle, through disappointment, through “wilderness” where we feel utterly and completely alone and confused. He does not do this because he hates us; he does this because, out of his great love, he desires more for us. He wants us to become people who are fully alive in who we are, rather than what we do or what title and position we possess. He sets us free from the things that cannot give life so that we can have life abundant with him. And the beauty of these seasons is that if we are willing to endure them, to go through them, to wrestle with them, is that we will come out the other side—broken, but known by a new name. We find ourselves no longer known by what we do, but by the God we know.
We’re bruised and irreversibly changed, but for the better. And that is a beautiful thing.