Biblical Views: Wrestling with Faith

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For years I’ve been pondering the relationship of Biblical studies, faith and feminism. The pondering returns me to childhood, when every week I memorized one or more scriptural verses. Chosen by teachers, these verses offered proclamation, guidance and assurance—for example, John 14:27, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid,” and Psalm 23:1–3:

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures;

he leads me beside still waters;

he restores my soul.

He leads me in right paths

for his name’s sake.

A comforting faith they provided—no disturbing texts.

After childhood, my readings of the Bible moved from that comfort zone to critical study with existential ramifications. Such study highlighted ambiguities, perplexities and terrors. It exposed androcentric biases. It brought difficult problems. In blunt language, as a well-known feminist once told me, “You may teach the Bible as an academic subject, but you can give no allegiance to it if you are a feminist.” In other words, I must choose whom I serve. Yet I knew then, as now, that I could not and would not make that choice. Two affirmations held firm: I love the Bible. I am a feminist.

As I began to reconcile this seeming rhetoric of impossibility, a Biblical story came to my aid—the familiar yet alien story of Jacob at the Jabbok: “The same night he got up and took his two wives, his two maids, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the stream, and likewise everything he had” (Genesis 32:22–23). Why this particular story rose to the occasion, I know not. After all, it features an all-male cast in an agonistic entanglement—surely not a compelling picture for a feminist.

The story comes embedded in a context. The character Jacob is a scoundrel and thief who flees from his twin brother, Esau, to find refuge in the old country with his uncle, Laban. But in Laban he meets his match. After episodes of contention and trickery, including marriages and disputes about flocks, Jacob begins a journey home. Upon learning that Esau is approaching him with 400 men (not exactly a welcoming committee), Jacob protects himself. He uses his servants, wives and multiple children as buffers, sending them ahead, across the stream of the Jabbok River, while he stays on the other side.

Night descends; our story begins. Overall, it is a handsomely constructed narrative of little more than a hundred Hebrew words. Words of the storyteller surround words of two characters. All the words slip and slide, with gaps (silences) between them compounding the ambiguities. Three words, artfully arranged with Jacob in the middle of aloneness, introduce the story. They carry an ominous message: “Alone Jacob by-himself.” Immediately, out of nowhere, emerges a character of aggressive action. “And wrestled (‘bq) a man (‘is) with him.” Who is the attacker? Is he an angel or messenger as Hosea claims (12:4–5)? Or Esau as rabbis hold? Or a night demon or river demon as folklorists contend? Or Jacob himself as therapists propose? Or God as theologians (and later, Jacob) detect?

Whoever this “man,” he appears not all powerful, for the coming of dawn restrains his physical aggression. He is not prevailing. So he resorts to an obscene tactic, striking Jacob at his manhood. The result: Jacob’s thigh is wrenched or dislocated. The attacker’s power begins to wane; he implores Jacob to let him go. Defiantly Jacob answers: “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” A power struggle ensues, relating to names. The stranger gives Jacob (whose name in folk etymology suggests a grasper, schemer or conniver) the new name Israel (“God rules”). But it does not erase the old name. Jacob remains true to Jacob, seeking to manipulate and control by asking the name of the stranger. The ploy fails. Surprisingly, however, the stranger blesses Jacob before disappearing. Whatever the blessing, it does not come on Jacob’s terms. Nor does it restore his body to wholeness. Alone (as in the beginning) Jacob limps away.

Moving this haunting story to my predicament at the boundary of faith and feminism, I pluck from it064 two memorable lines, one from Jacob and one from the storyteller. First, Jacob’s defiant words to the stranger I take as a challenge to the Bible itself. “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” I will not let go of this book unless it blesses me. I will struggle with it. I will not turn it over to my enemies that it curse me. Neither will I turn over to my friends who wish to curse it. No, over against the cursing from either Bible-thumpers or Bible-bashers, I shall hold fast for blessing. But I am under no illusion that blessing, if it comes, will be on my terms—that I will not be changed in the process. Indeed, the second line I pluck from the story undercuts that illusion: The storyteller reports: “The sun rose upon him [Jacob] … limping because of his hip.” Through this ancient story, appropriated anew, Biblical studies, faith and feminism converge for me. Wrestling with the words, to the light I limp.

For years I’ve been pondering the relationship of Biblical studies, faith and feminism. The pondering returns me to childhood, when every week I memorized one or more scriptural verses. Chosen by teachers, these verses offered proclamation, guidance and assurance—for example, John 14:27, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled, and do not let them be afraid,” and Psalm 23:1–3: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads […]