Sunday Sermon: A New Name

Sermon for Sunday, October 19, the 19th Sunday after Pentecost, 2025, at St. Michael’s Episcopal Church, Colonie, New York. Text: Luke 18:1–8, Genesis 32:22–31

“Will not God vindicate his elect, who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long over them? I tell you, he will vindicate them speedily. Nevertheless, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

A challenging question for all of us who honestly know ourselves to be weak in faith, not constant in prayer, not persevering as we should.

But let me make sure you are not hearing what Jesus did not say.

Jesus did not say, “When the Son of Man comes, will he find peace on earth.”

He didn’t say, “Will he find social justice.”

He didn’t say, “Will he find thriving churches, full of shiny, happy people.”

He didn’t even say, “Will he find his people behaving themselves.”

He said, “Will he find faith.”

Now the object of faith is not, for instance, the belief that I can, by building good habits and strengthening my will-power, lead a morally blameless life.

The object of faith is not that the nations of the world will reconcile their differences and live in harmony.

The object of faith is not that our parish will see its glory days return.

The object of faith is not even that the church will take up the cause of the poor and downtrodden.

We may wish for all of these things, and perhaps even, to a certain extent, see some of them come to pass, if in a very provisional and temporary way. I rejoiced, for instance, at the news that the terrorist organization Hamas has finally been compelled to release its 20 remaining living Israeli hostages, who had been held since they were abducted on October 10th two years ago. This happened on Monday. It is not “peace on earth,” but it’s a good thing for which many have prayed.

A few months ago President Trump referred to his hopes for ending the Russia-Ukraine war. He said, “I want to try and get to heaven, if possible. I’m hearing I’m not doing well. I hear I’m really at the bottom of the totem pole. But if I can get to heaven, this will be one of the reasons.”

As Christians, we are commanded to pray for our president and all those in authority, and additionally both as Americans and lovers of peace we should hope and pray for his success in these diplomatic efforts to make peace among nations. Our tradition provides some excellent prayers that we ought to pray for presidents and kings and all in authority. I like this one:

“O Lord, our heavenly Father, the high and mighty Ruler of the universe, who dost from thy throne behold all the dwellers upon earth; most heartily we beseech thee, with thy favour to behold and bless thy servant the President of the United States, and all others in authority; and so replenish them with the grace of thy Holy Spirit, that they may always incline to thy will, and walk in thy way. Endue them plenteously with heavenly gifts; grant them in health and prosperity long to live; and finally, after this life, to attain everlasting joy and felicity; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.” ^[1]

We pray prayers like this because we know that our authorities need much grace and guidance and—indeed—personal salvation. Christians have known for a very long time that emperors, kings, and presidents, even those who try to do right, inevitably mix injustice with justice and fail in their best attempts, as do we all.

On Monday, despite the successful hostage release, Trump was more pessimistic about his chances with the Almighty: “I don’t think there’s anything that’s going to get me into heaven,” he said to reporters. A real moment of unscripted honesty, I think, and it happens to be true: nothing he can do can earn him favor with God.

This is just as true for you and me. If we’re looking to get into heaven on the basis of our accomplishments, it’s not looking good. We’re all way down at the bottom on the scale of merit.

For many years, Garrison Keillor would sign off his weekly radio variety show, “A Prairie Home Companion,” with the following spiel: “That’s the news from Lake Wobegon, where the women are strong, the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.”

It’s a good joke to go out on, that “above average” thing. But this is what we, in our self-righteousness, think we are. We admit that maybe we’re not as good as we could, or should, be. But we still like to think we’re hanging on to a solid B-minus on the heavenly report card.

Here’s the thing about that. Compared to your next-door neighbors, sure. Maybe you’re a little better, maybe they’re a little better. Maybe he’s a real bozo and makes you look extra good. Don’t we sometimes like to keep people like that around to remind ourselves of how good we are in comparison?

Or maybe another neighbor is a living saint who’s always feeding the homeless on her way to volunteering at the animal shelter and mentoring underprivileged youths, and you feel guilty whenever you think of all the things she’s doing and you’re not.

But it makes no difference, these grades we assign ourselves and others, because compared to the righteousness of God, no one measures up. On that heavenly report card, we all get a failing grade. So no more of this self-flattery. It’s time to get real with ourselves about ourselves, and turn to our gracious God for a hope that is based not on our own poor performance, but on his own righteousness and promises.

The point of the parable is this: Jesus will come, and he will vindicate his elect, by his own goodness and mercy. This is what we are to hold on to in faith. The elect certainly will not vindicate their Lord!

The biblical figure of Jacob is our object lesson. I don’t think we can have any temptation toward hero-worship once we read of all the things Jacob and his family get up to. Cheating his brother, deceiving his dad, running complicated business scams with his large, contentious, and sometimes violent family—it’s all there. A few weeks ago we checked in with Jacob on the run, after his brother threatened to kill him for stealing his birthright. That was when he had the vision of that stairway to heaven, a vision which the writer to the Hebrews identifies as a vision of Christ.

Now, Jacob is returning to the land of his birth, with large herds of cattle, wives (all four of them, not a practice I’d recommend), children, servants, etc. A very successful man—but his warlike brother Esau and his men could easily wipe them out. So as he prepares to cross the stream across the border into Canaan, Jacob sends everyone and everything he has ahead, and he remains, alone.

And there, it says, “a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day.”

This story of Jacob’s supernatural wrestling match is familiar to many—Bono sings about it, for goodness sake—but if we read these words carefully we learn that it is not Jacob who wrestles with God, but God who wrestles with Jacob. Why is this important?

It is not Jacob who goes, even at this moment of crisis in his life, in search of God. If anything he is hanging back, passive, waiting for things to happen to him. No, it is God who comes looking for Jacob, who gets him moving, keeps him on his toes, who compels him finally to demand, once again, a blessing. Young Jacob got his father’s blessing through deceit, but God who was with him then is with him in his maturity, and wants to bless him again.

And what is the nature of this blessing? We might think of many blessings Jacob would want now, at this critical juncture in his life—safety and security for himself and his household being perhaps the most pressing need. This is not the blessing he gets. What he gets is a new name.

“Your name shall no more be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed.”

Jacob has prevailed upon God only because God chooses to be prevailed upon; God is really the initiator who wants to bestow his grace on Jacob. Again, Jacob is no hero of the faith. At this point he is so beat down by circumstances as to fail even in his natural chicanery. God has to rough him up a little to get him going again.

Jacob—Israel—limps away from this divine encounter without any assurances about how things will go in the impending confrontation with his estranged brother Esau. Later on we learn that Esau’s wrath has cooled, he also has prospered meantimes, and he is pleased by the peace offerings Jacob sent on before him. But Israel knows one important thing, and this matters more than anything else: the God of his fathers, the God who he saw in visions of the night at Bethel, is with him still, directing his ways before him, and he has given him a new name, the name by which the new nation of his descendants will be known.

Converts used to take a new name at baptism, a “Christian name,” to mark their entry into the faith. This practice fell off since after the first few centuries of the church most people were baptized soon after birth, and “Christian name” became synonymous with one’s proper name as opposed to a surname. But remember that for those who experience the new life of grace as a deliverance from their former life of bondage, taking a new name is a powerful sign. They had encountered the God of Israel, and he made them partakers of his covenant.

For all who are baptized, God has given you a new name. It is the very name of his Son, Jesus, and just as Jacob would bear a limp from that wrestling match for the rest of his life, so you bear the precious sign of Christ that marks you his own now and to life eternal. ✠

[1] If you try to find this prayer in the 1979 prayer book, you will not find it, although it was included in previous editions. Apparently the 1979 compilers felt that the eternal salvation of our rulers was too much to ask.

The featured image on this post is a painting by Paul Gauguin, “Vision of the Sermon (Jacob Wrestling with the Angel).” It is in the collection of the National Galleries of Scotland, and is reproduced here with permission from that institution.