I Hear Tell, You're Doin' Well, Good Things Have Come to You

I was hoping to be able to get the story of my road trip finished, but I’ve had to work too late for that. A long evening of good solid work it was, and now that I’m sitting in the loft of a rather lovely summer lodge, overlooking a crackling fire and a room full of pleasantly inebriated guests, I am happily exhausted. And, as I type out a few thoughts while sitting in an easy chair with a mug of tea and a pot of hot water, I think myself a proper English scholar.

I’ve begun to regard this place as a good temporary home. I’ll be glad to leave it behind as soon as I reasonably can, but for now, it is a beautiful place and I am resolved to explore and enjoy it to the fullest possible extent.

Much of my newfound contentment has come about as a result of the encouragement that I receive daily, almost hourly, from all of you back home. I’ve also been helped along by the knowledge of your prayers. The words, “I’ll pray for you,” have never been much more to me than a nice, but truly pithy, bit of consolation. One may as well have said, “Hang in there, sport;” or “keep a stiff upper lip.” Now, though, I hold those words as real truth, and take them as a promise of real, holy encouragement. Does the phrase “holy encouragement” seem odd? It did to me, until I read the first chapter of Paul’s epistle to the Romans. There, I found that Paul longed to share a spiritual gift with the Roman church, a church which he had desired to visit more than any other for years. What great gift could the Apostle to the Gentiles be so eager to share with the single most powerful church of the Western world? Encouragement, plain, simple, and life-sustaining.

In addition to the fortitude I’ve taken from your collective support, I’ve been able to settle in a bit over the last two weeks, and life here has taken on a certain sort of normalcy. As my father promised, a few days with a solid routine allowed me to adjust to the point of determination. Because of some successful time spent here, I could contemplate a bit more, and knew that I could endure the summer.

However, endurance alone might make for a miserable time. Instead, God saw my paltry wager of grudging endurance and raised me true joy. I remembered that I am to be content in all things, because of the marvelous gift of salvation and righteousness that I’ve been given. If, as the prophet Micah wrote, the righteous are to live by faith, then surely I can exercise faith in the hope I have. I mean both hope for a spiritual transformation, as well as hope for an enjoyable summer, and while these two may exist on entirely different planes of consequence, I want both very much. Finally, I live in the hope that one day this time away from home will end, and I can look back on it as a time of growth and peace, and spiritual discipline, and then move forward without a single regret. So, I can be content in the place I have found myself, and I can press onward and upward.

All this is to say that I’m doing better. The things that you’ve all said or written to me have been moments of home to me while I’ve been far off; while bound to this place, and not entirely thrilled about that bondage, your thoughts and prayers have allowed me to return to a faraway place of joy and love somewhere in East Tennessee for brief moments, and for those brief respites I cannot sufficiently express to any of you my gratitude. I only hope that when this is all over, I can manage to somehow express the love I have for you all, which has been made so much more apparent to me in this difficult time.

If any of you should see another one of you, tell that other one thanks for me.

My Life in Miniature

I’ve now been away from home for ten days. In case you’re wondering, that puts me ten percent of the way through the time until I can go home. That sentence is perhaps a bit revealing. Yes, I’m dying to go home. It’s not that it isn’t beautiful here, nor that there’s any job or activity awaiting me at home. It isn’t even that I don’t think this summer is worthwhile anymore. I just miss everything in Chattanooga, and I’m already tired of being here.

But that makes all of this seem much worse than it is. To be honest, I’m no more bored up here than I would be at home. Actually, were I at home, there would be less things to do and I would have less money with which to do them, since I quite my job to come here. Still, I miss the old place, and with business so slow up here and my ministry not yet really begun, I’m ready to leave.

Thankfully, I have hope. Alexander Pope said, “Hope springs eternal in the human breast.” Brave Saint Saturn said that it’s the bravest thing of all. I think they’re both right. My hope specifically is that this time will be worthwhile. No matter how much I want to bail out, I truly believe that, whether or not God led me here, He allowed me to come here and can do something great with me in this place. I may not like being here, but if I stay here, I can learn perseverance, patience, commitment, and hopefully something new of God. Already I’m learning how much I love my family, and how much I need the support of those who love me.

All of this thinking built into a bit of a revelation today while I was praying. I realized that this is in some way my life in miniature. I have no idea what the rest of my life is going to be like, and I often wonder whether I’m going to be able to handle it. However, I know that I can handle each passing day with my hope in God. Here at Custer, each day is all that I can even think of, yet I’m not spending my days trying to go home because, more than anything else, I want to learn the lessons God wants to teach me, even the hard ones that feel something like a season in Hell. Maybe that last bit was melodramatic, but you get my point.

Now I’m here, trying with everything I have to be patient and to enjoy the good times. I’m glad that there are good times. I’m getting to talk more deeply and for greater lengths of time with my family, and occasionally I get to spend some time exploring a beautiful place with other Christians. They tell me that when we get busy, the time will pass quickly. I hope so.

So already I’m learning. I said when I started all this that I was prepared to wrestle with God. As I learned in seventh grade, wrestling is really difficult, and you usually hate it while doing it. However, it makes you stronger, and you learn from it. If the cost is any indicator, these lessons should be quite valuable, and I’m glad that I’m learning new things. I’m glad that I’m being forced to depend more on God, even if I don’t like the process. Now if only I can get to the conclusion and get out of here, it will all be glorious. Paul told me to count it all joy; considering that he was trapped in filthy Roman dungeons for months at a time, I suppose I can follow his advice. As I press onward toward the completion of this time, I am strengthened by my hope, and I am glad to find that even when my life looks both terrifying and impossible, now and for the rest of my days, I can hold to hope and try to flourish in each day, leaving all that makes me collapse in tears in the hands of my loving Father.

Road Trip, Day 2

I woke up early and headed out for Kansas City. On the way, I listened to a compilation of songs by The Cardigans that Nathan made for me. I must say, I enjoyed them immensely and highly recommend their work to you all. After two hours, I saw Kansas City looming on the horizon.

I decided that I wanted to spend some time in Kansas, so I drove through to the other side of the state line. I saw the Kansas City National Guard Armory. Mistakenly, I thought that my father had done his National Guard training in Kansas, so I snapped a few pictures of the Armory and savored my newfound connection to his past. I was somewhat disappointed to learn later that he had spent his time in Oklahoma. Oh well.

After my misguided photography trip, I went to a nearby grocery store to buy a Thank-You card for my hosts in South Dakota. There, I realized that Kansas City has a very large Hispanic population. There was a gigantic tortilla machine, buckets of dried shrimp (apparently a common Mexican ingredient), shelves full of spices and dried peppers, and a large case of Mexican pastries, a few of which I bought. They were good, but not particularly impressive.

After milling about a bit in the store, I left with my pastries and card. From there, I drove around Kansas City a bit. I liked it better than St. Louis. Where St. Louis is a typical large city with a few famous sites, Kansas City feels like a real metropolitan center. The architecture was varied and unique, showing a lot of Hispanic influence as well as some attempts at old European emulation in the chic districts. There are sculptures and murals throughout the city, as well as well-maintained parks. A number of museums and universities dot the cityscape, and even the roads themselves are winding and unusual without being frustratingly twisted. I took a short walk in a peaceful little park, then head out for some good Kansas City Barbeque.

Pastor Tamerius, my host from the previous evening, had recommended that I try a local place called Fiarella’s Jack Stack BBQ. The Fiarella family started it some time before 1950, on a date that I can’t quite remember. Their legacy is well worth experiencing. I had been told that the Kansas City specialty is a cut of barbeque called Burnt Ends. They are the meat cut from the end of the rib, served with a little sauce. They have a rich smoky flavor, very much like chopped barbeque meet, but far more moist. For my lunch, I ordered a combination plate of these as well as an order of barbequed lamb ribs. Yes, it sounded odd to me as well, but I’m always up for odd food. I was not disappointed.

The burnt ends were tasty, but they were essentially just another but of barbeque. The lamb ribs, however, were unlike anything I have ever had. They were incredibly moist, and simply touching the bone was enough to dislodge the meat. Their flavor was distinctly barbequed, but with a unique character that was both buttery and salty. I will not rest until I have had lamb ribs once again in my life.

Also a pleasant surprise was the Southwestern barbeque sauce. If a normal, molasses-filled barbeque sauce were to fall in love with a genuine, chunky, onion-and-pepper-laden salsa, and the child of their union were raised by a bottle of ketchup, this Southwestern sauce would be the result. It was delightful, and altogether unusual, which I consider a great virtue.

After lunch, I drove north to Sioux City. On the way, I detoured briefly into Nebraska. There, I found a peculiar house.

Obviously, this place is deserted and has been for some time. Just as obviously, it is horribly haunted by the spirits of some vengeful Nebraskan farmers. I was sure of this the moment I laid eyes on the place. Thus, I set out immediately to find some evidence of malicious spirits. It was not long before I happened upon the beast who must surely lead the ghosts of the farmhouse. His eyes burned with cold fire, and the darkness of his shaggy coat can only reflect an evil disposition to wreak havoc on the countryside. He looked up at me with baleful eyes, and I knew that I must leave before I was beset by his wicked minions.

Look on and tremble with fear, oh mortal.

Driving through the countryside of Nebraska and Iowa, I was delighted by the cultivated beauty of the farms. The fields were far more sprawling than they had been in Illinois or Missouri, and the land was flat enough that one could see for miles from any low rise in the road. A storm came on, and the brooding clouds and occasional lightning flashes only served to enhance the impression of endless strength and splendor on the open plains. It was truly majestic.

When I arrived in Sioux City, I found that the kind people of the city had erected a sign in my honor.

They seem to be intent on assuring everyone that I am eating well out on my own. After passing through Sioux City, I continued to marvel at the grandeur of the fields stretching out to every horizon. As I entered South Dakota, the horizons receded until it seemed that I was looking at the ends of the earth in each direction, across thousands of acres of open land. I loved it. I wish that I could have captured it on film, but every picture I took seemed to confine the world I meant to preserve until it lost its power. I can only say that the land was beautiful, and that it is a kind of beauty that you must gaze at with your own eye to understand.

After another long day of driving, I arrived at Lennox, South Dakota. I got to the town just as the sun was setting. Unfortunately, my directions failed me, and I quickly learned that the extensive majesty of the plains turns to an immense openness at night that can be quite disconcerting when one is lost. I called my hosts, and after another half hour of searching, I made it to their farm. After a chocolate cupcake and a glass of milk from the generous farmer and his wife, I collapsed into bed in the house that his grandfather had built over a hundred years ago.

Road Trip, Day 1, Part 2

Parking by the Jefferson Westward Expansion Memorial, the site of the St. Louis Arch, I exited my car and spent a few minutes wandering around the park. It’s placed immediately beside the Mississippi River, and I was now farther West than I had ever been before. Pretty exciting stuff. The arch itself is wider than I’d imagined; actually, I later learned that it is exactly as wide as it is tall. Underneath the arch is a museum dedicated to the Westward Expansion in general, and Louis and Clarke in specific. I looked at some stuffed wildlife and read a few plaques before getting my ticket to ride the tram to the top of the arch.

Now, this tram bears mentioning. Because it travels through a curved structure, it needs a peculiar design to keep the guests sitting upright. To do this, it takes the basic principle of an elevator and combines this with a suspended tram, the seven cars being suspended from a set of rails above. Then, a Ferris Wheel design is introduced, with the cars all swiveling to maintain an appropriate level. Finally, out of what I can only guess is the imagination of an eccentric engineer who has read too much science fiction for his own good, the cars are designed as something like spaceship escape pods. They are small, white, spherical parabolas, somewhat rounder than eggs. They are no wider than six feet across at any point, and one must enter crouching and sit leaning forward on a stool to ride them. Five people are crammed into this ridiculous, but amusing, contraption. Sadly, in the rush to board and depart, I was unable to get a picture that does the cars justice.

Upon departing, I found myself at the top of the Gateway Arch. I snapped a series of pictures.

This is the general direction of home, far away across the Mississippi, miles of farmland, and so many small cities. I bid it farewell, not knowing how much I would soon miss it, and turned boldly toward the West.

This, of course, is the mighty city of Saint Louis. The old courthouse is apparent in the foreground, as well as the Annheiser Busch stadium and a few other historic sites to which I can’t put names. The Busch Stadium itself amused me quite a lot, due to hours spent playing Command & Conquer: Red Alert 2, an extraordinary PC game. In one mission of the Yuri’s Revenge expansion pack, the player has to liberate St. Louis from Yuri’s evil mind control. To do so, one has to make his way across the city, sneaking past Soviet patrols, and then plant C4 on the Busch Stadium, where Yuri’s mind-controlling device is being kept. After doing so, you get to pretty well level the city in the process of weeding out the Soviets. Obviously, I’ve done a great deal of scholarly work in my life, since the Gateway to the West now reminds me primarily of a fictional, futuristic Cold War.

After the arch, I went to the Saint Louis Cathedral Basilica, which, I learned, has been revered by various Popes as the greatest American cathedral. I still prefer the National Cathedral myself, but I must say that Saint Louis has a fine church.

At first I thought the art was somewhat under impressive, until I realized that virtually all of the walls and ceilings of the Basilica, including the great dome, are covered in detailed mosaics. These were handcrafted by a particular family of artists, and are quite beautiful. It was staggering to realize the years it must have taken to cover the sanctuary alone in murals made from tiny bits of stone. I wandered through the Basilica taking pictures of these mosaics. It was interesting to note that, intertwined with the geometric patterns and Bible stories were images of the Basilica’s construction, such as this one:

I also found a number of Latin transcriptions. This one

was the first that I was able to translate. It means, “Lord, Grant to Them Eternal Rest.”

After a prayer in the Basilica’s chapel, I went to the visitor’s desk and inquired as to where I could find something tasty and local for dinner. The clerk recommended “The Majestic,” telling me that they serve both great local food and wonderful Greek. The restaurant has been on a street in St. Louis since the 1930’s, and has contributed to making the area the standard for local cuisine.

The Majestic is an interesting restaurant, very much a family diner.

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The booths particularly caught my eye, as they were clearly church pews which had been sawed up and made to fit a single table. I liked it.

I had some of the most amazing Greek food I have ever eaten. All the dishes I had were things I’d eaten before, but were without exception superior to any form of them I’d eaten.

The gyros, tsatsiki, and spanakopita were all good. The grape leaves were unusual, both for the hollandaise sauce that was poured over them, and because they are the only stuffed grape leaves that I have managed to swallow and, even more shockingly, somewhat enjoy. The true pinnacle of the meal was the pita, which was perfect in every way. It was grilled, and had a rich but not overwhelming flavor of butter which made it so much more than a device for conveying the gyros to my mouth. Delightful.

Shortly after dinner, I left St. Louis and headed to Columbia, Missouri, two hours West. There, I planned to spend the night with Pastor Travis Tamerius, of Christ Our King Presbyterian Church. He gave me the address, and I arrived at the house about ten minutes early. Noting the basketball goal and white exterior that he described in his directions, I went to the door and knocked. I received a “Who is it?” through the closed door. Upon responding, I got a “Why are you here?” Thinking that Pastor Tamerius was joking, I laughingly responded that I was looking for a bed for the night. After a short exchange, the door opened, and I was confronted with two large, African American college students. Perhaps, I thought, I have made a mistake. I apologized, retreated to my car, and called Pastor Tamerius. As it turns out, there is a house one street up from his which has the same street number and exterior description. Eventually, I passed a pleasant evening of conversation with my host, had a good night’s rest in a thoroughly un-masculine room, and headed out once more.

Road Trip, Day 1, Part 1

Day 1

Alright, friends, here I am. My new home is beautiful, as I expected. The accommodations aren’t luxurious, but they’re adequate, and the food is rather better than I’d hoped.

I’ve decided to begin my record by reporting the trip here, broken into three days.

On Day One, I left the house at 5 AM central time, and drove until I was in the middle of Kentucky. There, like any good hobbit leaving the shire, I stopped for a second breakfast, which I ate by the Tennessee River. I hadn’t realized that I was going to cross the River again, and I was amused by the thought that, in terms of proximity to the River, I may as well have been eating back in downtown Chattanooga.

Once I had finished my meal, I want for a short walk to get the blood pumping again in my legs. I wandered down from the pavilion in which I had eaten and made my way to the river shore.


There, I found that the people of Kentucky are not taking very good care of our river. The only logical conclusion I can reach is that they through their picnic furniture into the Tennessee along with their leftovers for the fish. Silly Kentuckians, tables are for people.

From there, I drove to Illinois.



I was beginning to run low on gas; imagine my dismay when I found that the first BP I stopped at had plastic bags over the pumps. Calculating that I could make it to another gas station easily, I drove on. At the next BP, I found the same situation, but this time there was a memo to would-be customers taped to the pump: “Due to the power outages, our pumps are out of operation,” then, below that, a simplified version for the poor people of Illinois: “No power, no gas.”

A bit discomfited, I drove desperately onward. The song I’d Sure Hate to Break Down Here began playing in my head. Finally, I found a gas station in the midst of farmland which was run by generators. After fueling up, I asked the cashier why no one seemed to have gas. Looking at me strangely, she asked, “You ain’t from around here, are you?” Remembering my Uncle Jeff’s warning about people who asked me this question, I began to nervously back away from the counter. Then she added, “They’s been a tornado; we ain’t had power since Friday.” I mumbled a few words of thanks and consolation, and beat a hasty retreat before any banjo music started playing.

From there, I made my way to Missouri, excited to spend a few hours in St. Louis. I drove through a lot of farmland, all of it small fields, mostly fallow or full of yellow flowers, and divided into no more than a few acre patches by surrounding trees. I emerged from the countryside into East St. Louis. Seeing the famous arch in the distance, I consulted my atlas and began to plot a course for the memorial.

Westward Ho!

Begun, this road trip has.

I traveled today through Tennessee, Kentucky, Illinois, and Missouri, the latter two of which I have never seen before. Currently, I’m reclining in a bed belonging to a girl between the ages of 9 and 14. Her father is the pastor of a church here in Columbia, MO, who has been quite hospitable to me, not only through the provision of this room but also through the extension of a couple of quite good chocolate chip cookies and an interesting bit of conversation. His daughter is away, so I am enjoying the benefit of her pastel green-and-purple bedroom for the night.
This post will have to be devoid of pictures, I’m afraid, as well as somewhat abbreviated, due to my road-induced weariness. When I get to Custer, I’ll install my photo software and put together some sort of photo gallery of the trip here. For now, I’ll allow a brief recounting of the day to suffice. I began early, at 5 AM by slow time clocks. After driving for about four hours, I ran into an old friend in Kentucky. Like any good hobbit leaving the shire, I decided to stop for second breakfast with her. I drove over a bridge to her opposite shore and found a nice little pavilion by her bank. It seemed odd that she was still called the Tennessee River in Kentucky, but better that than her being the Kentucky River back in Chattanooga. After assuring myself that there were no guerrilla fighters of either Israeli or Arabic sympathies on this West Bank, I hopped out of the car, ate a few bites, and took some pictures of an amusing scene which I shan’t recount until I can do so with photographic aid.
After returning to the car, I drove to Illinois. The state has apparently suffered an awful tornado which has knocked out power to a sprawling area. I was dismayed to learn this fact as I stopped at a deserted gas station, in need of some fuel but unable to procure any. That put the score at Mother Nature: 1, Me: 0. After a good bit of searching, I found a gas station powered by generator. Now the game’s all tied up, Ma Nature. The ball’s in your court.
I’d never been to Illinois before. I liked it well enough. It was a bit too flat to make me want to live there, but the farms were all small and attractive, and the state had quite a few nice suspension bridges. Missouri is even flatter, and without the nice bridges. However, the people seem nicer in Missouri, and the Show Me State also boasts the city of Saint Louis, a most interesting little town with some famous mosaics, moderate traffic, overpriced parking, and incredible pita bread. I rather liked it. I shall have to post at some length later about St. Louie, but that will also have to wait until I have photo capability. Suffice it to say that I visited the arch, which seemed appropriate since I am embarking on my own Westward Expansion; I frolicked about a bit in the Cathedral; and I ate the only good stuffed grape leaves I’ve ever had.
I headed out from St. Louis for the center of the state. After arriving at the wrong house and demanding to be let in to a stranger’s home, I found the house in which I am currently staying in Columbia, Missouri. I hope I didn’t frighten the first house overmuch, but I have a feeling that I was the more frightened one in that confrontation. Still, all’s well that ends well and I am here now, happy, safe, and ready for a good night’s sleep. I’m going to be staying tomorrow at a farmhouse on the outskirts of Lennox, SD, so it may be Wednesday night or later before I find some dependable internet access. Thanks to all of you who have written to me with your love and support. When I get a dependable connection, I’ll send you all emails or some other cyber-communication. Until then, Peace and Grace.

From Bethel to Peniel: An Introduction

Greetings to you all, and welcome. You’ve arrived at my first web log, which is to be primarily an extended travelogue. My intention is to allow you all to stay abreast of my adventures in South Dakota this summer, and, next year, my wanderings through Europe. I’m hoping that this will be good fun, and that it will keep us all a bit more connected whilst I am away. Of course, I will certainly be doing more here than simply recounting my travels. Indeed, this first post is to be an introduction to my blog and an explanation of its theme, and will only be connected to my journey indirectly. So, here goes:

As you’ve noticed, the blog is called “From Bethel to Peniel.” Now, I know that you all know exactly what this title means and that you are all fully aware of the connotations it bears. Indeed, any explanation I offer will probably be completely superfluous, but please indulge me while I refresh my own memory on the subject. Bethel is Hebrew for “The House of God.” More pertinently, Bethel was the place where the Jewish Patriarch Jacob had his famous “Jacob’s Ladder” vision, in Genesis 28. Through this vision, God extends to Jacob the covenant that He made with Jacob’s grandfather Abraham. More on this later.

Peniel is another place important to Jacob’s story, although the name of the place is far less well known than what transpired there. At Peniel, Jacob wrestled with Yahweh’s proxy (the Angel of the LORD), resulting in a nice limp and his name being changed to Israel. If you want more detail, it’s in Genesis 32, starting in verse 22. This, too, will be expanded upon later.

Now, note the subtitle to the blog: “an account the awful thrill of finding my Way on the road.” I dearly hope that this title will be earned, as finding my Way is precisely what I hope to accomplish abroad. I very much want my journeying in the wider world to show me something of the God I’m trying to serve, and to give me some idea of how exactly I may go about performing this service. While in South Dakota, the United Kingdom, and wherever else I can manage to end up, I’m going to be seeking out a worthwhile life pursuit, primarily in the form of a professional career. However, that is not the only thing I mean by “my Way.” Enter double meaning. If I manage to find some career, but discover nothing more of God in the process, I’ll consider the whole business wasted time. Christ Jesus is my Way, and I’ll be searching for Him in the midst of all this. Pray that I’m successful.

I’m calling the process an “awful thrill” because that’s exactly what I expect it to be. Awful has many different denotations and connotations, from terrifying to somberly inspiring to extreme to unpleasant, and I’m sure that the thrill of this sojourn will be all of these things at times. While I do hope it will be more of some than of others, I most want it to be thrilling. We shall see.

So, now let’s explore my choice of Bethel and Peniel. It starts with the fact of my traveling. The Patriarch Jacob, founder and namer of these two sites, was a wanderer above all else, and his wanderings bore much of the character that I hope mine will bear. Unlike Moses, Jacob’s travels were not focused on his ultimate destination, but rather what he might find when he arrived. Unlike the nation of Israel, Jacob was not seeking a home in which to establish himself. He already had all the homes he needed. Instead, Jacob traveled to find a life of greatness, and to better himself. More importantly, Jacob met God while on the road, and continually came to grips with the God he knew, sometimes quite literally, while traveling. Travel was a means to an end for Jacob, but it also had a great deal of value in itself. Since these are things that I hope will be true of my travels, I’ve taken Jacob as a sort of Patron Saint for my adventures.

Now to the specific sites of Bethel and Peniel. As the first place where Jacob encounters God, Bethel seemed an appropriate starting point for my journey. It is at Bethel that Jacob begins to experience God for himself, and essentially comes into his own as a spiritual leader. Before this, he is a deceitful trickster, and a man totally unfit to lead God’s chosen family. However, at Bethel, Jacob is transformed; it would even be appropriate to call this his conversion. He has an encounter with God in which Yahweh renews His covenant with Jacob’s family, directly bringing Jacob into this powerful heritage. After this encounter, Jacob is a much changed man. When his uncle Laban double-crosses him by giving him Leah instead of Rachel as his wife, Jacob doesn’t retaliate with the vengeance and trickery we might expect prior to his vision at Bethel. Instead, he works faithfully and honestly to earn Rachel as well. Of course, he doesn’t always manage either his home or his business affairs well, but he does work with a new integrity and appreciation of the God he met at Bethel.

I consider my own Bethel to have been my life before college. I became a Christian very young, and therefore have been experiencing God nearly all my life. However, I have rarely had a chance to venture out into the wider world and put my conversion into practice. It is fitting for a student that my life has been largely preparation until now, but as my academic career draws to a close for a time, and I look to what lies beyond, I feel that I am beginning an altogether new journey. Like Jacob at Bethel, I am traveling to an entirely new place, and I hope that I may, in Jacobean fashion, see God on the road.

This sight of God is the other major symbolic meaning of Bethel. At Bethel, Jacob receives his vision of God, in which he sees that God is sovereign over all the earth, as the angels go up and down the famous ladder, doing His bidding throughout the world. Along with this vision of Yahweh as the supreme lord, Jacob receives a personal inclusion into the covenant that was first given to Abraham. God promises prosperity to Jacob’s family, and He promises a blessing for all the people of the earth which will come through this holy family. This is the Old Covenant of the Jewish people, and it is powerfully fulfilled and expanded in the New Covenant given to Christ’s church. Like Jacob, each Christian is directly included in the prosperity which is the ultimate triumph of the saints, and each is a part of the blessing for the earth, which is the salvation and eternal kingdom of Christ. Thus, in my ongoing conversion, I have received a sort of vision which is the direct heir of the covenant that Jacob was brought into at Bethel. Moreover, I have for myself a sort of vision which I hope now to go and act upon. It is nothing so defined, nor so sudden an epiphany, as that of Jacob; rather, I have a vague notion that God’s greatness can mean a grand adventure for me. Monday, I’ll be heading out to see if I can’t get hold of this adventure, and it seems to me that I am quite like Jacob leaving Bethel with God’s covenant firmly fixed in his mind.

That is why I consider this a movement “from Bethel.” But why “to Peniel”? The events of Peniel are the point at which the symbolism of my choice intensifies. As I noted, Peniel is the place where Jacob spends a night essentially wrestling with God. If Bethel is the point at which my journey starts, I see Peniel as the substance of this journey, and my ultimate goal is the dawn of the next day. At Peniel, Jacob saw God’s face, which is why he named the place “Peniel,” a Hebrew word meaning “the face of God.” Jacob called the place this because he realized that he had seen the face of God and lived, a task not easily accomplished. God’s face is exactly what I’m looking for in my travels.

Jacob’s seeing the face of God comes in the midst of his famous wrestling match. The symbolism of Jacob’s wrestling has often been noted, but it’s a struggle that I feel keenly. Jacob grapples with an unknown figure of divine authority. It is apparent from his reaction to living after seeing God’s face that he knows the incredible danger involved in this act, but he is determined, beyond even regard for his own life, to receive some blessing. It’s very much an exercise of faith, in which he is wholly dependent on God’s mercy to not strike him dead for his audacity. He wagers everything he has on the chance that his struggle will gain for him God’s blessing, and he wins the jackpot.

I especially like the image because it’s so concrete. For Jacob, there is no high-minded spiritual reality or miraculous occurrence, at least not until after he wins. There isn’t even a clarity of circumstances: the whole business is confusing, with an unknown figure appearing out of nowhere when Jacob thinks he is alone, and the whole event happens at night, in an age before electricity when nighttime meant nearly tangible darkness and shadowy moonscapes. In the midst of this confusion, Jacob clings doggedly to his opponent, demanding a blessing even if it kills him. Jacob is brutally physical, perhaps because he has no other way of engaging in such a struggle.

This raw confrontation in a shadow world is an image that I appreciate very much. In our modern time and place, where love is an over-sentimentalized feeling and faith is a charismatic Sunday morning shiver, the incredibly definite struggle that Jacob fights, and the triumph it brings him, is so refreshing. Being a rational-minded professional scholar, spiritual reality is something that I rarely understand, and attempting to pursue it often leaves me terribly befuddled. As Chris Rice sang, sometimes finding God is like “trying to smell the color nine.” However, it doesn’t follow that this difficulty should bring about a surrender of hope or effort. Rather, like Jacob, I must grapple with the realities which are apparent and which I know are true, and beg God to allow my tenacity to pass for devotion, and to not strike me down for my incredibly presumptuous demand of something greater. Even when the whole world is dark and the very figure I’m holding on to seems to fight against me, I must endeavor not to let go. This is crucial to Jacob’s wrestling match: it isn’t about pinning his opponent, it’s about not letting go. Jacob realizes that he has no chance of winning through his strength, but he can simply refuse to loosen his grip. Of course, there is incredible risk involved. Jacob’s victory costs him his hip. The man is crippled for the rest of his life, but Yahweh’s summation is that he has “struggled with God and with men and [has] overcome” (Genesis 32:28). He wins, despite the cost.

So that’s my struggle, the substance of my journey: to not let go, and to risk everything in a brutal confrontation, knowing I’ll probably suffer at least a disjointed hip, in the hope that I can make it to the dawn. If I can, then I get to become Israel. I get the ultimate certainty that I have prevailed, and I get one heck of a story to tell, the story of my journey From Bethel to Peniel.

I think that pretty well explains everything. Now, we wait and see. I’m leaving Monday morning, around 6:00 AM, for Custer State Park, near Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. There, I’ll be working with an organization called A Christian Ministry to the National Parks (www.ACMNP.com). Ten other volunteers and I, supported by a group of local Christians, will be putting on worship services for the staff, rangers, and park visitors on Sunday mornings. Also, we hope to organize some small groups for Bible studies, as well as anything else we can manage. While doing this, we’ll all be employed at Custer and Rushmore as seasonal employees for the parks, living and working with the rest of the staff. I’d be insane not to be a bit apprehensive about the coming months, but my excitement greatly overwhelms my trepidation. If possible, I’ll try to find a hotspot or two somewhere along the way to update you all on my travels. When I get to Custer, I’ll find some way to hook up and let you know what has transpired in the meantime.

Grace, Peace, and Love to You All.