An old story. A classic car lover was perusing the
classifieds and saw an ad that seemed impossible to believe. A
1966 candy-apple red Corvette, a dream car, and offered for $100.
What? $100...for a classic? No way, José. Was it a wreck? Or
maybe the price was a misprint. Still, he had to find out, so he
called. A woman answered the phone and assured him that the car
was in excellent shape and that there was no mistake about the
price. He dashed over.
To his delight the car proved to be everything the woman
reported it to be. Gorgeous! Of course he told her that he
would take it. $100. But his conscience gnawed at him as he
wrote the check. "Ma'am, I have to tell you that this car is
worth far more than $100. You have every right to get a much
high price."
"Oh, I know that," she replied, "but you see my husband has
left me and run off with his floozy secretary. He said he didn't
want anything from our marriage - I could keep everything but the
Corvette. He wanted me to sell that and send him the money.
Which is precisely what I am doing. $100."
Ah, justice. In a way, that is probably what came to mind
to those ancients who listened to the story of Jacob. The story
is hilarious. It lends itself to incredibly entertaining
theatre. I envision it being presented by the Capernaum
Community Players to appreciative audiences summer after summer
after summer.
As the folks take their seats, they already know the story.
After all, it is their version of 1776. This is the tale of the
birth of their nation, one they have known since they first
understood the mother tongue - Hebrew. This is their equivalent
of George Washington chopping down the cherry tree, Ben Franklin
flying his kite, King George, III, and the Declaration of
Independence. They KNOW the story. But it is so much fun, they
are content to have it told again and again.
Now, the lights are dimmed and the curtain goes up. The
scene is a desert pasture where several shepherds are lazily
grazing their flocks. Center stage is a well where the sheep
will quench their thirst. A large stone covers that well to
prevent any one shepherd from taking more than his share of the
precious water.
Suddenly, from stage left enters a handsome young stranger.
The audience already knows who he is - Jacob - and why he is
there - he is on a journey from his father Isaac's place in
Canaan to this land, Paddan-Aram, the ancestral home in northern
Mesopotamia, in search of a wife - got to keep it in the family,
says Dad. His destination is the home of his mother Rebekah's
brother - his Uncle Laban. He greets the shepherds: "Yo, Bro's.
Wha's-sup?" (Or the ancient Hebrew equivalent thereof.)
They reply in unison, "Wha's-sup???" The audience in the
theatre laughs. After all, this IS a comedy.
Jacob continues. "Where are you from?"
They reply, "Haran."
"Haran," Jacob answers. "Do you know Laban, Nahor's
grandson?"
"Yes, we know him."
How about that! It's a small world after all. "Is Laban
well?"
"Jes' fine. As a matter of fact, here comes his daughter
Rachel with the sheep." And on cue, from stage right, in comes
the best looking shepherdess anyone has ever seen. A perfect
TEN! Jacob's heart turned to mush - he was as smitten as smitten
could be.
Now what? What can he do to impress her? "Hey everybody,
it's hot as blazes out here; isn't it time to water the sheep?"
The shepherds reply, "Well, not really. You see, around
here we wait till all the flocks have gathered, then we remove
the stone from the well together."
"Uh-huh." No indication as the whether they move the stone
together because it is so heavy or whether this is simply common
courtesy in these parts. No matter, because now the beautiful
Rachel is here with her sheep, so Jacob does his best Clark Kent
impression, walks up to the well, removes the stone single-handed, then with a flourish, invites the new love of his life to
begin watering her flock.
She smiles demurely. He smiles back, flashing his Dudley
Doright pearly whites, then with a flourish reaches out, takes
her in his arms, and lays a lip-lock on her that would have made
Cecil B. deMille proud. The audience cheers as the curtain comes
down. Fifteen minute intermission as they head to the lobby for
RC's and Moonpies (These are SOUTHERN Israelites).
Now the lights dim again as the audience reclaims their
seats. The curtain goes up and we find ourselves at the entrance
to Laban's tent. Jacob and his uncle are talking. The young man
has already done the ritual catch-up on family affairs - sister
Rebekah is fine, brother-in-law Isaac is not so well. Nothing
much is said about nephew Esau, but the audience knows that story
anyway. Laban tells young Jacob that he is more than welcome in
this household.
Now, we get to the nitty-gritty. Jacob wants Rachel. He
knows there is a bride-price to be paid, so he offers seven years
of labor in exchange for her hand (and everything attached to the
hand, as well, of course). Whoa. Such a deal. This is like the
$100 Corvette to Laban. A most generous offer, so he quickly
agrees.
Now the orchestra plays an interlude as the Jacob and the
rest of the players scurry around the stage representing the
passing of seven years. But, as the ancient story goes, those
seven years "seemed like only a few days to him because of his
love for her." Ahhh.
The final notes of the interlude are sounded and we see
Jacob talking to Laban. Seven years are up. "Uncle, a deal's a
deal. I am READY for my wife."
"That's fine. But we've got to do this right. After all, a
big wedding is every little girl's dream, and we don't want to
disappoint her do we?"
"No." More music as players hustle about getting
announcements sent out, neighbors invited, food and drink
prepared, all made ready for a week-long feast.
Now the big day. The bride and groom are both bathed,
anointed with oil and perfume, and dressed in special clothes
(just like today). Throughout the ceremony the bride remains
veiled. The bride is accompanied by bridesmaids and the groom by
his attendants as well, the chief of whom, called the friend of
the bridegroom, acts as Best Man. The public ceremonies begin
with Jacob and his companions processing to Rachel's home. There
are the obligatory greetings, giving and receiving presents, a
few drinks (which poor Jacob downs with a bit more gusto than is
prudent). From there they move to the groom's tent in a lively
processional dance where a meal is served prior to which the
marriage contract would be read out and a public declaration made
by the groom: "She is my wife and I am her husband from this day
and forever." No, the bride does not have to say anything; she
really has no say in any of this anyway - she does what she is
told (similar to the FATHER of the bride in our day). Then all
the guests toast the couple with a blessing, and the party
continues. The evening concludes with the groom symbolically
wrapping his cloak around his veiled bride and, escorted by the
parents and bridal attendants, he leads her to the specially
prepared marriage chamber where normally the veil is removed and
the marriage consummated.(1)
The lights in the theatre are dimmed, the stage hands unfurl
the scrim that displays the moon and twinkling stars, and the
orchestra softly plays as the audience awaits the surprise they
know is coming. No one explains how Jacob could make the mistake
the audience knows he is making - probably a combination of
intoxication and anticipation. Under such circumstances, the
male of the species, we come to learn, does not always think with
his brain.
Suddenly, as the lights come up indicating the arrival of
the dawn, the theatre-goers hear a mighty "AAAUURRGGH" - a blood-curdling scream coming from within the marriage chamber. Jacob
comes rushing out, looking right and left, then standing center
stage, he yells again: "AAAUURRGGH."
The audience knows what he is screaming about. Last night,
the marriage that he consummated was not with his beloved Rachel,
but rather her older sister, Leah. Hers was not the face that
launched a thousand ships but instead the face that would stop
a clock. Jacob is understandably displeased. He has been
hoodwinked (or veil-winked, as the case happens to be).
Now the audience settles in with some satisfaction, because
here is where the poetic justice comes in. They remember the
details of the Jacob story - how he and his twin brother Esau had
competed from the day they were born, how Esau (the older of the
two) was deprived of his father's blessing when Jacob misled Dad
into thinking he was the one who should receive it. Now the
deceiver has been deceived; the trickster has been tricked. The
$100 Corvette.
Jacob comes up to Laban who has just peered out from his
tent. Our hero sputters, "Uncle, Laban, what have you done?
Seven years I have worked for you...FOR RACHEL!!! Now you give
me Leah? Why?"
Laban responds weakly, "It is not our custom here to give
the younger daughter in marriage before the older one." Strange
he forgot to mention that seven years before when he made the
initial agreement. "Finish Leah's bridal week," said her father,
"then we will give you the Rachel also."
"You'd better."
Then Laban adds, "...in return for another seven years of
work." Which we know Jacob gives, but about which it is NOT
said, the time felt like "only a few days because of his love for
her."
The final scene of this particular production has the
wedding scene recreated. Jacob is about to take his second wife
in a week when the curtain comes down as the orchestra plays a
patriotic medley while the off-stage announcer reads off the
name's of the children who would be born to Jacob and his two
wives (plus their personal handmaids) - familiar names, because
these are the names of the twelve tribes of the nation of Israel.
It would be nice if the announcer could conclude with, "And they
all lived happily ever after," but everyone knows how the story
goes. This would be the Battle of the Brides, just one more
episode in the national version of Family Feud. One of the
funnier ones, to be sure, but feuding and fighting had
characterized the nation's history from the beginning.
No doubt the audience thought about the story as they made
their way home, as we all do when we leave a good show. But, as
the Israelite version of 1776, it would hardly have made them
swell with national pride. In fact, if the story were not so
familiar to them that they might be intellectually "inoculated"
to its sordid details, they would probably be downright
embarrassed that this was the birth of their nation.
Actually, there is a wonderful bit of ultimate truth in this
tragicomic story, and it is this: perhaps, as the aphorism has
it, we cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, but God can.
God can work with lovable charlatans like Jacob and do something
good; God can work with scoundrels like Laban and do something
good; God can work with beautiful people like Rachel and do
something good; God can work with the not-so-beautiful people
like Leah and do something good. God can work with harmonious
families and do something good; God can work with dysfunctional
families and do something good. God does not work like the Deus
ex Machina of the Greek stage, but is intimately involved in the
day to day struggle.
The Apostle Paul came to learn that in his own life and
work. Near the end of his ministry, he wrote to the believers in
Rome. He reflected on the frustrations that he and they and
everyone of us have - we attempt to bring them to God in prayer,
but find ourselves so bound up that we cannot communicate with
anything but "groans that words cannot express." Much the way
that an ancient Leah must have felt when Jacob left her bed in a
fury; how could she ever put into words the pain and hurt she
must have felt? But Paul insists that those groans, the sighs,
the tears, the body language is communicated - God understands
choreography. Then God takes all those circumstances, the highs
as well as the lows, and molds them. In Paul's words, "And we
know that in all things God works for the good of those who love
him, who have been called according to his purpose."
A Sunday School teacher was telling another of those great
old Genesis' stories, the tale of Abraham and his sacrifice of
Isaac. With great drama, she made the narrative come alive - the
three-day journey to Mt. Moriah, the pain of a father about to
lose his boy, the child-like trust of a son, the hard stones of
the altar to which the lad was lashed, the flash of the knife
poised to strike. Suddenly a little girl became so nervous she
shouted, "Oh, please, stop - the story is terrible," and she
began to cry.
Laughingly and with wonderful confidence, another child
exclaimed, "Oh, Mary, don't be silly. This is one of God's
stories and they always come out right."(2) I say Amen!
So, I think would St. Paul. As he says at the stirring
conclusion of Romans, chapter 8, "For I am convinced that neither
death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present
nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor
anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from
the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord."
That is good news. To Christians in the west whose lives
have been so disrupted by the massive forest fires, the good news
is that the conflagration cannot separate you from the love of
God in Christ Jesus. To Christians whose lives have been thrown
into disarray because of the faltering economy and turmoil in the
markets, that cannot separate you from the love of God in Christ
Jesus. To Christians whose families are separated for a time
because of the war on terrorism, know that NOTHING can separate
you from the love of God in Christ Jesus. To you and me living
comfortably in Warren but sometimes faced with moments of quiet
desperation, the good news is that nothing can separate us from
the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
An ancient family feud. Jacob, Rachel, Leah - what a bunch!
But what a lesson! If God can use them for good, God can even
use you...and you and you and you and you...and me. Wow! Be
open to it. And remember, nothing can separate us from the love
of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. And that is the best news you
will ever hear.
Amen!
1. Wedding details from Bruce Metzger and Michael Coogin, eds., The Oxford Companion
to the Bible, (New York : Oxford University Press, 1993), p. 795
2. G. Ray Jordan, Beyond Despair, (New York: MacMillan, 1955), p. 163
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