Genesis 32:22-29
For the first time in many months, he finds himself longing for chaos. Deliberately picking up a smooth round pebble, he hurls it at the stream with a touch of vengeance. He watches the granite reflect the last few rays of sun as it skids over the dark water and finds himself laughing at the absurdity of it all. Just yesterday he had voluntarily taken the night watch, although he could have easily ordered any one of his servants to do it. His wives were fighting again. Although he is accustomed to leading with an air of unfaltering confidence, in times like these he cannot escape the whispered conviction that he is merely a pawn in the hands of these women. He does know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would rather risk a band of raiders or a pack of wolves than face another night of passive-aggressive wordplay, or worse, stone-cold silent treatment.
With a resigned sigh, he tosses another jagged pebble. It only hits the water one time and cuts through the eerie silence like a knife. It’s funny, the whole journey he was constantly immersed in a sea of sounds: trampling hooves, relentless chatter, shrill laughter, creaky saddles, howling wind, endless bickering. But he has never so keenly felt the impact of a single sound, a small shiver running down his spine as the almost imperceptible ripples reach the shore.
Watching the quarter-moon slowly illuminate in the sky above, he remembers another clear night about twenty years ago. The corner of his mouth turns up as he recollects his younger self. He had slept under the stars with his head propped up on a rock. If he tried that now he would absolutely pay with at least a week of shooting back pain. At that time he had so much unfounded arrogance and so many untested ideals. He had no conception of the blissful agony of falling in love or the painful agony of heartbreak. And yet, strangely in this moment, he feels that no time has passed. Questions that have been buried and muted under two decades of activity and noise resurface with crystal-like clarity.
Who am I?
Where do I belong?
What is the meaning of my life?
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I really hate voids. Whenever I encounter one, I have a deeply rooted instinct to either run in the opposite direction or attempt to fill it up by any means possible. After talking to many mentors, clients and friends, I strongly suspect that this is more of a human condition than just a personal aversion. When the conversation dies for more than ten seconds at a dinner party, our minds begin to anxiously sort through the pictures on the wall, the last weather report, and the latest mildly juicy gossip for something engaging to say. If we have to wait alone for more than ten minutes at a bus step, it takes a herculean effort to not automatically reach for a smartphone.
Have you ever had a season that felt like peering down a void? Or maybe you lost your balance completely and tumbled down into it like Alice in Wonderland. Periods of loss and change have a way of exposing voids: being laid off from a 20-year job, losing a loved one, graduating from school, the breakdown of a relationship, moving to a new country. Something important shifts, disintegrates, or disappears, leaving a gaping hole. The questions this creates can be so uncomfortable and painful that our beings easily turn into magnets, frantically attracting anything that might fill, cover or obscure the void. This can range from seemingly harmless distractions like compulsive instagram scrolling to more destructive patterns like substance use and abusive relationships.
A void is often a place of intense struggle. There was a reason that Jacob spent the whole night wrestling with God. When something we depended upon for love, worth, and/or belonging suddenly proves to be temporary, it often exposes core beliefs about ourselves and the world that we have long carried, sometimes since childhood. “I don’t have a place in the world.” “I must be unlovable.” “Maybe I’m defective.” No wonder that voids seem to come with fluorescent warning lights.
Why would I ever willingly stay or even linger in this kind of place? Is it even possible when everything inside of me screams to “avoid at all costs?” Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a pastor who is known for both his writings and resistance to the Nazi dictatorship, explored this from a prison cell. As he processed the loss of freedom, human companionship and autonomy, Bonhoeffer struggled deeply with his personal identity. He wrote a poem entitled “Who Am I?” He described a sharp conflict between the confident and wise persona he showed to the world, and the anxious and self-absorbed person he often felt like inside. He captured the inner turmoil this created:
“Who am I? This one or that one? Am I then this one today and tomorrow another?”
After wrestling through these questions with God, Bonhoeffer arrived a place of calm assurance, captured by his concluding statement:
“Who am I? The solitary query mocks me. Whoever I am, You know me. I am Yours, O God.” (Bonhoeffer, Letters and Papers)
Bonhoeffer allowed himself to look squarely into the face of the void and invited God into the resulting struggle.
And instead of a black hole, he discovered a portal, connecting him to his true identity.
Human relationships can mirror God’s love in a million beautiful ways. But we were ultimately created to be loved by God. Jobs and vocations can bring a great deal of meaning and purpose. But we are fully seen and known only by God. Communities can provide support, comfort and a sense of belonging. But the only place that we can fully and eternally belong exists in God’s kingdom. If we never encountered voids, would we ever reach a place of complete security and deep satisfaction? Or would we remain just satiated enough with temporary substitutes and fail to look further?
Back to Jacob…
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Genesis 32:30-32
The rising sun paints the stream with pink and purple ribbons. He sits motionless on the bank, not even glancing at the pebbles lying by his feet. As he absently studies water, he is almost surprised to see the same familiar face reflecting back at him. Although everything appears much the same, a deep part of him knows that it has somehow changed, perhaps because he has changed.
Reflecting on the long night of intense struggle, he is so thankful he did not follow his first impulse to bolt across the stream in search of noise and chaos. Or his second impulse to curl into a tight ball and wish the world away. He takes one more moment to soak in the quiet, realizing that it has somehow become profoundly peaceful, and then limps slowly towards the rising sun.