Head sagging and frozen in malaise, though I couldn’t muster the energy to confirm it, I knew she sat there staring at the top of my head like a cat over a gopher hole. Sitting as far as I could on the right side of her baby blue love seat with my legs extra crossed, I absentmindedly spun my wedding ring around my finger—a dead giveaway for my grave discomfort. Neither my body nor my mind intended to open up.
I wouldn’t call it an aggressive stare, as in, I’ve asked the question, now it’s your turn to answer. No, I sat on the receiving end of the maddeningly patient passivity of a therapist trained in Emotionally Focused Therapy (EFT). She could out-wait even the most skilled in the art of sustaining awkward silence (which I’ve always considered a decent skill of mine, but I’m clearly the Padawan here). An unassuming candle in the corner coated the room with a hint of lavender, clinically proven to soothe. A white noise machine hummed somewhere unseen, coaxing me to relax. None of it worked. Worse, I knew my therapist would sit there, as long as it took, committed to not breaking the silence until I responded.
At that point I had been in therapy for about ten months, a decent-sized miracle, really. For years my wife suggested I talk to a counselor, and for years I deflected. Partially because within the conservative Christianity of my youth brews a mistrust of the therapeutic world. It’s suggested—or even outright taught—that prayer and Bible study provide sufficient means for repairing breaches of the heart and mind, thereby creating ample shame for those who consider going outside the church for help.
The other reason I resisted therapy? It terrified me. I expend a great deal of energy projecting an image that I have it all together, that I have no real problems, that I’m not human like the rest of you. Why would I willingly put myself at the mercy of someone who would see right through my well-rehearsed act? I’d rather chew broken glass.
And there you have it: shame and fear, possibly the two most powerful forces keeping us from living a thriving, abundant life. They serve as the primary weapons in the internal battles when one part of us says yes to the Spirit’s invitation to grow, but another part—which I’ll call the old self—immediately resists. The old self, it turns out, has a particular attachment to who we’ve become. A vested interest, you might say. It worked hard to get us here and sees no sense in changing now, so it pulls out all the stops to sabotage our transformation, leveraging shame and fear at every turn in its efforts to prevent a new self from emerging.
Perhaps the deepest, most personal obstacle we’ll face on our journey toward becoming a progressive Christian is this struggle between our old and new selves. Eventually, we’ll need to address whatever hostilities or misgivings emerge with our family, friends, or former church community, but first we must wage the war within. Our old selves, carefully fashioned through years of Sunday school lessons, Bible studies, and potlucks, will not easily relent to these newfangled ideas that beckon us onward.
A tale of two brothers found in Genesis 32 illustrates what can happen when we perch on the precipice of breaking through to a whole new way of seeing both ourselves and the world around us.
As you may recall from the flannelgraph, the brotherly relationship between Jacob and Esau ended abruptly when Jacob—for the second time—bamboozled his older brother out of his rightful blessing and inheritance. Jacob fled home when his mom warned him of Esau’s fury and intention for murderous revenge. So, with thievery on one side and death threats on the other, the brothers hadn’t seen each other in twenty years by time we get to Jacob devising a plan to return home in Genesis 32.
Decades had past, and now Jacob, the clear antagonist in the sibling rivalry, dared to hope his brother would consider reconciliation. While still a ways off from Esau’s land, Jacob sent messengers ahead to inform his brother that he, Jacob, had become a wealthy man and was returning home, hopeful that Esau had spent the last twenty years cooling down. The messengers returned and reported to Jacob, “We went out to your brother Esau, and he’s coming to meet you with four hundred men” (Gen 32:6). This was no welcome party. Four hundred men meant an army. Esau intended to fight. If revenge is best served cold, this one had been on ice for two decades.
Jacob, terrified at the potential bloodbath awaiting him, quickly split up his camp so as to minimize his losses if his brother indeed attacked. Before the sun went down, Jacob concocted a plan he hoped would pacify his brother and keep himself off the tip of Esau’s spear. From his vast wealth of livestock, Jacob put together a bountiful gift of goats, rams, camels, and more (history’s first Edible Arrangement). He split up the gift into three separate groups and gave them the following instructions:
Go ahead of me and put some distance between each of the herds . . . When my brother Esau meets you and asks you, “Who are you with? Where are you going? And whose herds are these in front of you?,” say, “They are your servant Jacob’s, a gift sent to my master Esau. And Jacob is actually right behind us” (vv. 16–18).
However, Jacob wouldn’t be right behind. Rather, another round of gifts would follow. Three times Jacob scheduled this charade, each time insisting, “Your servant Jacob is right behind us.” With this plan, “Jacob thought, I may be able to pacify Esau with the gift I’m sending ahead. When I meet him, perhaps he will be kind to me” (v. 20).
It’s embarrassing to admit, but as I read Jacob’s plan, I find myself nodding along and thinking, “Not a bad idea. That might work!” I’ve got some Jacob in me, and this plan feels familiar to ones I’ve concocted in the past. I can’t count the number of times in my relationship with Kate when I messed up or wounded her in some way and, instead of owning it and saying, “I was wrong and I am sorry,” I found myself doing all these little tricks to try to smooth things over. To try, as Jacob put it, to pacify my wife. I did extra laundry, cleaned the garage, sent a sweet text, or basically anything other than acknowledging that I messed up.
Jacob might have feared his brother and what he would do, but he seemed equally terrified to admit his own failure. Afraid to admit that he wronged Esau all those years ago. And so, in his fear, he hoped some sheep, donkeys, and goats would distract his brother enough so that the hard conversation never happened. Jacob feared admitting—to both himself and to Esau—that he royally screwed up.
Jacob’s desire to reconnect with Esau? A good thing! Jacob’s effort to sidestep his responsibility in their fracturing? Not so good. Keep this in mind as we read what happens next in the story, when out of nowhere, Jacob finds himself in a fight for his life.
I’ve never been in a real fight. As an aspiring pacifist, I’m hopeful to keep my streak intact, but if it ever happened, I’m assuming that—unless the odds stacked heavily in my favor—I’d lose miserably. My arms and legs are sticks, nary a muscle with which to inflict damage. And my hands? Well, they’re accustomed to the more refined, precise motions of typing, drawing cartoons, and playing guitar. Me throwing a punch would be like the time I visited a museum in San Francisco and drank from a toilet that had been converted into a drinking fountain. Sure, you could do it, but everyone watching will cringe at the awkwardness of it all.
That being said, I’ve rehearsed being in a fight plenty of times in my mind, just in case. With Jason Bourne scenes running through my head, a tiny part of me imagines that maybe I could parry my opponent’s blows, surprising both them and me. (Those who know me best are laughing right now. Feel free to join them.) With four hundred men marching his way, I’m assuming Jacob prepared himself just in case his plan failed, perhaps rehearsing fighting techniques in his head too. However, no doubt he awoke unprepared for the fight that actually did take place that night.
Before going to sleep, the storyteller says Jacob took his family across the Jabbok River and into Esau’s territory. Jacob then returned back over the river to spend the night alone. Stressed and weary from the day’s efforts, and anxious about what awaited him, Jacob went to bed that night isolated from his family, perhaps searching for some calm before the storm. There, in his loneliness and fear, the storyteller says, “a man wrestled with him until dawn broke” (Gen 32:24). The man’s identity stays hidden, and we never learn where he came from or why he showed up ready to rumble. We simply go from Jacob sleeping by himself across the Jabbok River to a sudden and intense all-night wrestling match.
The mystery man eventually realized he couldn’t win. So, with dawn breaking (v. 24) and his defeat imminent, the man pulled out one last cheap shot and tore a muscle in Jacob’s thigh (v. 25). Finally, the man requested to be set free, but Jacob bizarrely replied with, “I won’t let you go until you bless me” (v. 26). The nearly defeated stranger saw Jacob’s question and rose with one of his own, “What’s your name?”
Quite the bizarre story, isn’t it? A stranger comes out of nowhere, picks a fight with Jacob, nearly loses before taking a cheap shot, then gets asked for a blessing by the very guy he’s wrestling, and caps it all off by inquiring, “What’s your name?” His question, at first glance, suggests that the mystery man didn’t know Jacob’s identity. But a deeper reading, and my intuition, leads me to believe there’s something else going on here.
When the mystery man asked for his name, Jacob told him. But then the man said, “Your name won’t be Jacob any longer, but Israel.” A common storytelling technique in the Bible, name changes signify a shift or evolution of the character.[1] Jacob went into this epic all-nighter as Jacob, but he came out of it as Israel, which literally means in Hebrew “God shall fight.” Instead of always fighting and scheming for the outcome he desired, Jacob’s new name indicates a shift in perspective: he is now willing to let God do the fighting. Instead of grabbing and controlling, Jacob’s new identity as Israel would be about letting go and serving. What an incredible illustration of the journey of faith—particularly the kind that many of us undergo as we become progressive Christians.
Tradition suggests that this late-night rendezvous involved Jacob wrestling either God or an angel. I don’t find either of those readings particularly compelling. I’m not saying they’re wrong, or that people haven’t found inspiration or deep meaning from such readings. But when I read this story, I sense Jacob is wrestling with himself. Or, more precisely, with his old self. Which would help explain why, when Jacob responds with the same question, of “What is your name?,” the mystery man asks, “Why do you ask for my name?” (v. 29). Almost as if to say, “Why are you asking? You already know who I am. You already know my name, because I am you.”
Jacob’s wrestling story serves as an archetype for approaching the threshold of deeply personal transformation. Of charting a new course for who we are becoming. It illustrates the struggle we face when our old self is asked to make way for our newer, more expansive self. Jacob had been accustomed to a certain way of life, one that involved deception and manipulation. One that involved patterns of running away from conflict and not taking responsibility for his actions. Then, in the middle of the night, he received the gift of seeing his old self in a new light. The intense wrestling match revealed an invitation to transformation’s threshold, a caterpillar making its first effort to break through the cocoon.
I faced a similar internal battle as I sat on my therapist’s baby blue couch, anxiously spinning my wedding ring. We had just been talking about how I felt like I couldn’t be the man my wife needed me to be. The man my wife deserved that I be. She needed me to show up to our relationship in ways I didn’t know how to do. Including things like taking responsibility for my actions when I wounded her, not shutting down and shutting her out when I got upset, and being honest enough to name my feelings instead of passive-aggressively punishing her through body language and gaslighting. I had developed these patterns of behavior over the previous three decades, most of them passed on to me by my own family (much like Jacob, whose mother helped him manipulate and deceive his father in Gen 27:5–13). For me to begin to change, to fully confront all these behaviors that had for so long defined Colby, felt like an insurmountable task.
I remember adamantly telling Kate in the midst of one of our fights, “I can’t do it. I just can’t. I can’t be the person you need me to be. It’s too hard.”
When I shared those words with my therapist, she calmly but sternly said, “Colby, I want you to consider reframing that. I think it’s not that it’s too hard for you. I think it’s too scary for you.” I resented her already. She went on, “It’s not so much that you can’t do it, but that you’re afraid to.”
Her words plowed uninvited into my gut, as truth has a way of doing. Still, I resisted, terrified to face the idea of becoming a new person. It felt safer (easier?) to keep my potential new self in the category of things that are too hard. If that’s the case, if it’s just too difficult for me, then I could hardly be blamed for my inability to become a more empathetic, communicative, present spouse. I could shrug my emotionally dead shoulders and say, “Whelp, sorry, but I tried. As it turns out, it’s just slightly beyond my ability.” That option gave me an out. I could avoid transformation and avoid being responsible for it. Like, sure, I could try to become an NBA player, but when I fail, you can’t seriously blame me for it. It’s clearly outside my capacity.
But moving it into the fear category? Crap. What excuse did I have then? I’m horribly afraid of rats, but if I absolutely had to be in the same room as one, or had to hold one (God forbid! I die at the thought), I could do it. Ability isn’t holding me back—it’s fear, which starts and stops with me.
My fear kept me from even trying to be the man my wife needed me to be. Yet, at the same time, moving from a place of “I can’t do it” to “I’m afraid to do it” suddenly liberated me to see entirely new possibilities. Scary though it was, because I knew it was just fear that was holding me back, I also knew I could master that fear. I’ve done scary things before. Impossible things might always remain so, but scary things can be overcome.
I went into my therapist’s office that afternoon as Colby, but I left as—well, I guess my name is still Colby, but you get my point. A radical transformation took place inside me, and when I finally uncrossed my legs, stopped spinning my ring, and let myself open up, my journey toward a new self began—unburdened by the lie that I couldn’t change and empowered to face my fears and grow.
I’m still on the journey, obviously, but I’m much more likely to do what I couldn’t—or rather, wouldn’t—do. Such as sit in my own discomfort and name my feelings honestly so that my wife doesn’t have to guess. Or stay in the room and remain present when we are fighting instead of retreating and shutting down. I am choosing a new way to engage with conflict, and it starts with my willingness to name when and how I’ve messed up, and to stay with the conflict until peace can be found. While not solving all the problems, this new (and for me, very different) approach to conflict provides me and Kate a fighting chance for a healthy and happy relationship. I’m slowly laying the old me to rest, believing the Christ pattern offers hope for a newer, less fear-filled me.
When I consider the intense, overwhelming battle that waged within me—both in my therapist’s office and the years leading up to it—describing it as a wrestling match with myself sounds about right. I identify with Jacob and empathize with his desire to avoid owning his mistakes, perhaps explaining why I see the mysterious figure as an alter ego Jacob instead of God or an angel.
And I haven’t even gotten to the best part of the story yet.
The rising sun roused Jacob, now Israel, but before he broke camp to rejoin his family, he named the place “Peniel, because I’ve seen God face-to-face, and my life has been saved” (Gen 32:30). I assume this is an expression, because “no one has seen the face of God and lived” to tell about it (Exod 33:20). When Jacob says his life has been saved, this word can also be translated as delivered or rescued. Both words aptly describe emerging victorious after battling your old self. But even more beautiful, this word in Hebrew is natsal, which literally means “to snatch away.” In his all-night wrestling match, Old Jacob got snatched away and replaced with Jacob 2.0, a.k.a. Israel.
Watch what happens next. Not only does the story end beautifully, but it also reveals a vision of true transformation:
Jacob looked up and saw Esau approaching with four hundred men. Jacob divided the children among Leah, Rachel, and the two women servants. He put the servants and their children first, Leah and her children after them, and Rachel and Joseph last. He himself went in front of them and bowed to the ground seven times as he was approaching his brother. (Gen 33:1–3)
Did you catch it? Recall that Jacob’s original plan involved waves of bribery sent on ahead while he cowardly waited in the rear, hoping to pacify Esau through a lavish gift parade. But now, on day one of Jacob 2.0, as he saw his brother and four hundred men approaching, Jacob marched out first. He led the way. And instead of making excuses or trying to sweet-talk his way into his brother’s good graces, he humbly bowed to the ground seven times in full deference and respect to his brother.
With his days of deceit and manipulation behind him, Jacob approached his brother fully trusting that God shall fight (“Israel”). For me, this is about taking a posture of openness and vulnerability. When we learn to accept ourselves just as we are, such self-love renders us undefended in the face of conflict. We no longer need to fight to be seen, strive to be valued, or hustle for our worth. Jacob laid down the weapons he used for so long in his efforts to keep himself alive, and realized his best bet moving forward was to let go and let God. (Sorry! I know that probably made you cringe, I felt it too. But there’s a layer of truth in that old saying that I find helpful, especially in this context.)
Jacob let go of his constant efforts to control and deceive, and in its place he allowed his acceptance as a loved child of God do the “fighting” for him. A changed man, indeed. The old self had gone away (natsal) and the new had come.
As you move from conservative to progressive Christianity, one of the first battles you’ll encounter is the one within. Your old self has, for years, developed ideas and beliefs about who you are, who God is, and how you fit within your religious community. An identity has been built, and evolving beyond that identity threatens the “you” who got you there. Your old self panics as fear and shame come online and need to be acknowledged, addressed, and eventually overcome. You’ll have plenty more challenges ahead, and it’s best to face those challenges with eyes wide open to the ways fear and shame can creep in and sabotage your efforts to grow.
It’s scary to change, grow, and transform. Believe me, I know. Yet, I invite you to stare fear right in its ugly face and say, “Thank you for how you’ve helped get me here and shaped the person I am today. You’ve served me well in the past. But now you’re holding me back from who I want to become.” Like Jacob, we must reject the impulse to hold on tight and try to control; instead, we must seek to open up, trust, and let go. As you lay down the weapons you once used to defend yourself, may you embody Israel (“God shall fight!”) and discover all the armor you need resting in the truth that you are a loved child of God.
Likewise, shame wants you to believe that you can’t do it. That you don’t have what it takes. That you’ll never survive out there, alone, detached from your old faith communities. Shame wants you to turn around and go back home, believing you are unworthy of love and belonging. It wants you to ignore the deep cries within your soul, the ones begging you to spread your wings and fly. But bring the shame into the light! Do not try to outrun or hide your fears, flaws, and frustrations. Many of us left conservative Christianity because of the lack of space for doubts and questions. You had to be perfect, and shame thrives in those conditions. Your new self, however, doesn’t tolerate the hiding or pretending. The more we talk about the things that trouble us, and the more we name our struggles and bring them to the light, the less power shame has.
Jacob faced his fears, fought against his old impulses, and showed up the next day in a whole new way. His brother’s response says it all: “But Esau ran to meet him, threw his arms around his neck, kissed him, and they wept” (Gen 33:4). We may not always get such storybook endings, but overcoming fear and shame will at least create pathways for a life filled with joy, peace, and love, whereas the roads of fear and shame will only ever end in separation, isolation, and death.
There is one final detail from this story that I’ve omitted until now. After Jacob wrestled and overcame his old self, the storyteller says, “The sun rose as Jacob passed Penuel, limping because of his thigh” (Gen 32:32, emphasis mine). Here’s the thing: we don’t wage the war within and come out unscathed. The person who has emerged victorious, overcoming the fear and shame that rise up when we undergo personal transformation, will forever be altered by the deep changes within. They will walk with a limp, evidence of their courageous journey of transformation.
For years, I had no hitch in my giddy-up. My gait was smooth, like the unbroken surface of a just-opened jar of peanut butter. But rather than a sign of my awesomeness (as I deluded myself to believe), it indicated how I had not yet traveled the path of Jacob on the banks of the Jabbok River. I had not yet embarked on the journey of the warrior, as Pema Chodron says in When Things Fall Apart, and sat in my hot loneliness long enough to face who I had become—a necessary step to begin the process of becoming who I truly long to be.
For me, that looked like fighting my fears and going to therapy—where I’d continue to face them again and again—and watch as the layers of shame I carried slowly fell away. For Jacob, it looked like humbling himself to his brother, whom he’d wronged so many years before, and throwing himself upon his mercy. No longer running from his failures, but owning them and choosing honesty over fear and deception.
Whether you’re just beginning your journey toward progressive Christianity or you’ve been on the road for a while, we all must face those moments when we battle against an older version of our selves who resents growth. When those days come, may you remember that fear and shame don’t stand a chance against love and trust. Your new, more expansive and inclusive self is wholly loved by God just as you are. And may you discover a trust that the God who brought you up to this point has not and will not abandon you now. Like a parent over their child, God cheers you on as you grow.
When the dust settles and the sun rises, when the new day begins, when the old self stays buried in the ground while the new you rises triumphantly, don’t be surprised if you walk a bit slower, a bit more crookedly.
This doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. The limp is the sign that you’re ready for the journey ahead.