The Life Cycle of Faith: The Faith of a Teenager

Luke 15:11-13; Genesis 25:21-26

Last week, we embarked upon a four-part series on the stages of faith, and we began with childhood, in which we learned that trust is the central characteristic of a childlike faith (which Jesus told us is needed to enter the kingdom of heaven).

But of course, none of us remain in that phase, especially when we enter our teenage years.

Perhaps you all remember your time in middle school. Your voice changes, you grow taller, and that awkwardness goes much deeper than the acne. You try on different personalities in the same way you try on different clothes. It's a time in which we become our own person, which requires a certain amount of experimentation and, because of that, inevitable stumbles.

Scripture is filled with such instances. Moses killed; Joseph strutted; Jacob stole; Sarah doubted; and Peter ran.

Jesus shared a parable that exemplified this awkward time of life: the parable of the prodigal son. It's an unease with your own existence which creates an allure to venture into the far-off country — that other school, that other job, those other friends who we all believe will be more fun and more free. Jesus meant it to describe our willful desire for a life without God's rule.

The prototypical example of this in Scripture is Jacob. Known as the trickster, he cons Esau out of his birthright and later dresses himself like Esau to fool his blind father into giving him the blessing that belonged to Esau.

Esau will not take this younger brat's shenanigans lying down. So Jacob winds up fleeing for his life. And when he is in the wilderness, using a rock for a pillow, God comes to him in a dream. And rather than a stern scolding, Jacob receives a promise. The land on which he rests his head will belong to him and his descendants, and they will be as numerous as the dust of the earth.

Inexplicably, God prefers Jacob to Esau. There is one reason I can see: it has to do with the life of my father.

Robert Maxwell Evans did the stages of faith in reverse. When he was a young man, he lived a responsible life. He was a clean-shaven, all-American, preppy type, who, upon graduating from Stanford magna cum laude, enrolled in seminary rather than playing professional ball. Upon completing his Master of Divinity, he answered the call to the mission field in the jungles of Brazil — a very adult-focused, responsible set of decisions.

As with Jacob, and as with the prodigal son, the far-off country changed him — radically, and all you need to do is look at the photos: when he left for Brazil, his outfits were suits and ties and a crew cut. Over a decade later, when he returned in the 1970s to be a professor at Union Seminary, he wore cut-off jeans, tank tops, sunglasses, and a full beard.

Police did not like the look of his van, especially when he drove into "proper" towns like Princeton. And so, not a few times, my teetotaling, drug-free father wound up in jail for 24 hours.

There is something powerful about this phase of life: the faith of a teenager has gumption! Gumption to stand up to autocracy, banality, superficiality, triviality, venality, and brutality!

But it would be a long time before Jacob's temerity could be used for God's purpose. God was going to find a way to break Jacob's cycle of selfishness. Perhaps this is why God wanted Jacob to flee his homeland: twenty years with his uncle Laban would cure him. Jacob fell in love with one of Laban's daughters, who required him to work seven years to gain her hand, only to trick him at the end and give him a different daughter, making him work another seven years… Eventually Jacob truly fell in love.

…And then God commands him to return to the land of his father.

This meant facing the wrath of his brother Esau. Only now, Jacob had much to lose. Paralyzed by fear that Esau would slaughter not only him but his entire family, he comes to the river of Jabbok, and in the dead of night, he sends his wives, his eleven sons, and all of his possessions to cross the river.

He intentionally stays behind alone, exhausted and vulnerable, and finally at rock bottom, stripped of all of his schemes. In this moment of utter exhaustion and complete isolation, he is ready to meet God face to face.

And he prays, perhaps his first heartfelt prayer of his life: I am unworthy of all the kindness and faithfulness you have shown your servant. … Save me, I pray, from the hand of my brother Esau.

In the deep of night, he finds himself wrestling with a mysterious figure. We're not sure if it's a demon of his own making — a realization that his life of tricks and deception has put those he loves in real danger.

And here is where we discover Jacob's unique character is not only about deception, but about tenacity — a desire to have the best possible life. And so, in the middle of the night, in this wrestling match, this shadowy figure — who cannot overpower Jacob — uses a special wrestling move that dislocates Jacob's hip. But he still does not relent. Dawn is approaching, and he still has a powerful grip on this being. And so Jacob makes one more deal: I will not let you go unless you bless me.

And in that moment, Jacob is given a new name: Israel — because he struggled with God and with humans, and has overcome.

He calls the place Peniel, because he saw God face to face, and yet his life was spared. Once again, God has been generous and gracious, far beyond what Jacob could have deserved.

Brazil radically changed my father, because it was there that he clearly saw this incredible divide that was true in the society of Brazil, and just as true in the churches. The poor and the uneducated were sometimes treated as disposable members of society — treated as if they were children.

And when he returned from the far-off country of Brazil and came back to the States, like Jacob he came back with children and a wife and open eyes. And he saw that though he trusted his family would be well fed and safe, he knew that so many were not so fortunate, and so he made a deliberate decision. He made his life simple, because it was important to him to reflect the life of Jesus, in a way that showed respect and solidarity as Jesus showed for the poor, the dispossessed, the forgotten, and the unseen. And so we spent the summers with our father working at a soup kitchen and day camp in downtown Trenton, building adobe houses, and fighting for water rights in rural Colorado.

Jacob has finally moved past his impetuous, self-centered life, because he has been humbled — not only by God's grace, but by the fact that God would still use him for good and for glory.

When he finally sees Esau off in the distance, he bows down to the ground seven times as he's approaching his brother. He has found humility, and he knows that what he deserves is his brother's wrath. But the twenty years have changed Esau as well. And rather than strike him down, Esau runs and throws his arms around his neck and kisses him. And they both weep.

God can use the doubt. God can use the temper. God can use the frustration. God can use the exasperation. Because, as adults, we are sometimes so exasperated that we give up too soon.

A few years ago, the deacons were debating whether or not to let the meal ministry for homeless folks dissolve. It was hard to get volunteers. But it was a teenager who stood up and challenged them. She wasn't willing to let such an important ministry to the poor slip through our fingers. She knew that she — and that Brick Church — had so much to give, and wasn't going to let inconvenience stop us from doing what is right.

That is why, I believe, God wanted Jacob — not the polished version of himself, but the wrestler. God knew that underneath the schemes and the stolen blessings was a man who would not let go. And God was patient enough to let the far country do its slow work, turning Jacob's grasping into grip, his selfishness into surrender, so that the very stubbornness that once stole a birthright could one day contend with heaven and hold on until morning.

That is the gift of teenage faith. It does not sit quietly at the back of the room while an important ministry quietly dissolves. It does not let banality or superficiality or inequality or venality pass by unchallenged because everyone else has made their peace with it. It wrestles. It says, "I will not let you go unless you bless me" — and it says this not only to God, but to every closed door, every comfortable excuse this church or this world has settled for.

Some of you are in that far country right now, covered in dust, carrying a limp you didn't ask for, wondering whether the wrestling was worth it. Hear this: it was. Jacob walked away from the Jabbok broken and blessed in the same breath, and by morning, the brother he feared most ran to embrace him. God is not looking for your compliance. God is looking for your grip. So hold on — don't let go until you are blessed. Amen