It’s brothers, again.

Esau. Technically the older, by mere seconds, but these

things matter in families. Rugged. Sturdy. He preferred to

be outside hunting. Prone to impulsive action, especially

when hungry.

Jacob. Skilled in deception since the day he was born

clinging to his brother’s heel. He convinces his famished

elder brother Esau to sell his birthright for a bowl of

stew. Later, by impersonating Esau, Jacob fools their

elderly father Isaac into giving him (Jacob) the blessing

intended solely for the firstborn son. In other words, this

story is filled with family drama in the extreme. And so,

their mother Rebekah warns her favorite son (I don’t

even have time to explain that drama) that Esau now

plans to console himself by killing his brother. But that

was all a long time ago.

Now, after twenty years on the run, Jacob is headed back

home, where he knows his brother is surely waiting.

Jacob strategically sends scouts ahead who return with

some news. Jacob, we found your brother, Esau. There’s

bad news, and there’s worse news. Bad news: Esau is

already in pursuit, on his way to meet you. Worse news: he

is not alone. Four hundred men walk with him.

Jacob rightly assumes the worst, and driven by fear, he

moves quickly. Another act of strategic deception, he

divides the people, flocks, herds, and camels who are

with him. And he describes the reason. He says, “If Esau

comes to one half of my company and destroys it, then

the other half will be left to escape.”

And that’s the context for our two readings this morning.

Jacob, fearing for his life, prepares to meet his brother

on the road, but first he pauses to pray. It’s a remarkable

prayer. A request. A plea for forgiveness. A prayer of

repentance. An appeal for help. Jacob cries out to God,

“I am not worthy of your steadfast love. Deliver me from

the hand of my brother. Remember your promise spoken

to my ancestors.”

Then, somewhere deep in the wilderness, Jacob is

confronted. By whom? Not his brother. Not yet. Some

sources suggest it was an angel, but the Hebrew text

only says, “a man.” They struggle til dawn. Marilynne

Robinson describes the struggle as “a wonderful

image of lonely anguish, utter bewilderment, and

profound determination.”

It’s determination that enables Jacob to endure injury

and somehow hold on to his adversary. Before letting

go, as day breaks, Jacob asks for what he has always

most desired, what he has never fully received. Blessing.

Not power or prestige. Not influence or land. Not even

protection from his brother. Jacob asks for blessing.

His demand is granted, but in an unexpected way. Jacob

is given a holy vision, a new name, a fresh start, and an

aching hip to ensure that he will never forget this night.

So long as Jacob walks the earth, into his old age, he

will remember the wrestling that has just occurred.

And now, Jacob, limping his way into a new day,

prepares to meet his brother. The circumstances

of their encounter have changed not at all, but

something significant has shifted. Here’s how I know.

Prior to the wrestling match, he planned to send the

possessions and people ahead of him. See how it

works out for them, and I’ll follow behind. It is an act of

shameful self-preservation. Now, Jacob himself will go

first. Whatever may come, he will face it alone. He is

prepared for the worst.

Having dramatically set the stage in the wilderness, our

narrator in Genesis suddenly, without warning, shifts the

scene. All eyes on Jacob, but Esau ran to meet him. Esau

embraced him. Esau fell on his neck. Esau kissed him,

and they both weep.

It turns out that Esau’s pursuit was not marked by

bitterness or vengeance, but by an astonishing

grace. What follows is a moment of extraordinary

reconciliation between brothers that also echoes

Jacob’s experience the night before at the Jabbok. In

the midnight struggle and in the daybreak embrace,

Jacob sees the face of God. It is the face of God that

draws these two stories together. The face of God,

who has pursued him from the very beginning. The

presence of God who will not let him go.

And so, Esau offers his little brother the incredible gift of

forgiveness. But, why? The text doesn’t tell us. Not directly.

Some options present themselves. Maybe the old adage

is simply true—time heals all wounds. It has been a long

time, and Esau, for his part, has done quite well for himself

in the intervening years. He may not have his birthright. He

may not have his father’s blessing of the firstborn. But he

has acquired wealth, land, a family. As he explains to his

brother, he already has everything he needs.

Maybe that’s the reason. The passage of time. The

comfort he has acquired. But for some reason, I can’t

let go of a more simple explanation, the one truth that

has never changed from the very beginning. They are

brothers. Twins. They belong to the same family. This

act of grace may seem unexpected in the moment,

but through another lens it is perhaps inevitable. Their

emotional embrace speaks volumes for me. They wept.

What might their embrace, what might this story of

forgiveness and reconciliation, what might Esau’s

act, teach us? How could this ancient story guide our

intentions and our actions?

Two brothers. Esau. Esau pursues Jacob with a

mission of mercy. No wonder Jacob sees in his

brother’s face the very face of God. Esau’s response

reflects divine compassion joined with human love.

And this is our calling, Church.

And here, I want to be clear, because I believe our

sacred texts are clear. People of faith must take care

not to forget the heart of our God-given mission: divine

compassion and human love. Yes, we find these virtues

woven into the stories of Genesis, and as followers of

Jesus Christ, we find them fully embodied in the Gospel

accounts of his life and ministry that are our wisdom

and our guide. This is and must always be the standard

for our discipleship. The role of the faithful is to reflect

the life of Christ, to do as he did and as he commanded

us to do: to extend—not withhold—grace, to offer

empathy, to honor the humanity of those we love,

those we struggle to love, the strangers in our midst,

the vulnerable and the powerless, all God’s beloved

children. Jacob sees in Esau’s face the face of God

because Esau’s act is God-like.

Whenever we find ourselves using our faith as

justification for exclusion or hatred, we must honestly

search our own hearts and ask what is really driving us.

Communities of Christian faith have the high duty of

seeing with the eyes of Jesus and acting out of fidelity

to his word and his way. This vocation is to be valued

above every competing claim for our allegiance or

devotion. When we are not tethered to this core calling,

we will find ourselves drifting toward demonizing lies

and drawn to alluring idols of power. Esau resembles the

face of God because he remembers who he is and who

is brother is. Our call is nothing less. Remember who

you are. Remember who your siblings are.

So, what of Jacob? It’s his journey that continues in the

Book of Genesis. He’s on his way back to Canaan where

there will be twelve sons. More on them next week. But

Jacob. He is fundamentally transformed by this encounter.

Here’s the moment that changes Jacob perhaps above all.

He tries to account for his past sin with possessions and

property. He gathers gifts to give to Esau so that he can

be made right. Esau refuses them. This forgiveness will

come with no strings attached. No quid pro quo.

Marilynne Robinson describes it exactly the way it

happens, writing, “His debt cannot be repaid, but it can

be forgiven. This is the economics of grace.” In Esau’s

act of grace, Jacob receives the forgiveness of God,

and that’s the moment that changes the man. It is then

that the tears fall from Jacob’s face.

I’ve been thinking about how all of our experiences

of forgiveness contain within them this possibility,

this potential. To forgive is divine. To be forgiven is to

receive a holy gift.

The Reformer John Calvin suggested that every human

encounter is also a divine encounter. Consider that for

a moment, that every human encounter is also a divine

encounter. This means that for Jacob, the wrestling match

is no different from the reunion. In both, the face of God

is visible to him. Every human encounter is a divine

encounter. And Calvin says that in every human-divine

encounter, there is a question being asked of us, and that

question is this: what does God desire of this encounter?

What is God asking me to do in this moment?

Some of you know that my favorite volunteer activity

these days is coaching, along with Sara, our son

Samuel’s fifth grade basketball team. We have had

the privilege of coaching many of these same boys

for several seasons now, and I find that adds to our

enjoyment but also the depth of our emotion. A

couple of weeks ago, the game was close. Two points

separated the teams for most of the contest. It was back

and forth, back and forth, through the third quarter and

into the fourth. As the clock wound down, the intensity

on the floor ramped up, and it was matched by the

intensity in the stands.

Less than a minute remained when our point guard

stole the ball on the sideline—a heroic act! The opposing

player, out of frustration or perhaps desperation, shoved

our guard to the ground. Hard. Our player lay on the

court. He may be our toughest kid on the team, but he

began to cry. To be honest, some of what came next

is a blur to me. It was Sara who rushed over to check

on him. Slowly, tenderly, he got up and made his way

back to the bench. Meanwhile, there were some words

exchanged by parents in the bleachers.

And so, it was the kids who led the way. It turns out

our guy was not the only one in tears. The player on

the other team walked over to his bench wiping them

from his eyes. I watched what happened next in total

awe. As soon as the game ended, the opposing player

found a player on our team he knew from school. He

asked him to point out the kid he had fouled, and then

he walked over. Our point guard looked at him. Both

still teary eyed. He reached out and patted him on the

shoulder. All good, man. All good. The wonder of it was

it took place without any coaching. There was no adult

enforcement. As I watched them walk away from each

other, I could see the transformation that act of grace

had offered. We all saw it. Could their innate inclination

to give and accept grace point the way forward for us?

Here’s what I know, though I struggle to put it into

words. These small moments of reconciliation, these

simple words of forgiveness, this moment on a

basketball court in an elementary school gym in Indiana,

are made from the same material as the forgiveness

we know in Christ, as the forgiveness we are freed to

offer to each other. You see, the gift of grace is to make

us gracious. If we are not gracious, we have missed the

point. In Esau’s pursuit, Jacob saw the face of God.

And, behind it all, the God who has followed this broken

man from birth continues the pursuit. They met face to

face in a struggle for blessing that will forever join them.

Here’s how the writer Frederick Buechner imagined it:

“The darkness has faded just enough so that for the

first time Jacob can dimly see his opponent’s face. And

what he sees is something more terrible than the face of

death—the face of love.”

It’s the most powerful force in all of creation. Don’t let

anyone tell you otherwise. And so, with courage and

resolve for the journey ahead, let us look into the face of

love and take heart. You do not struggle alone. Amen.