(Genesis 32:22–31 & Luke 18:1–14)
When I was little, the highlight of my year was Whitsun week.
My Nan and Granddad would take my sister and me on holiday to a site in Devon. My beautiful Nana always entered the “Glamorous Granny” competition — and always won — while Granddad took us to the penny arcades.
We’d stand at those two-penny slot machines for ages, feeding in coin after coin, waiting for the satisfying moment when the pennies finally tipped over the edge and came tumbling out.
I used to think prayer was like that. If I just fed in enough coins — enough prayers, enough patience — something good would eventually fall out.
And if I’m honest, I still sometimes wish it worked like that.
Because life is full of long nights and unanswered questions, and the prayers that start strong sometimes trail off into silence.
In today’s readings we meet two people who know what that feels like:
Jacob, wrestling by the river through the dark night;
and the widow, pounding at the door of an unjust judge.
Both refuse to give up. Both stay in the struggle until the light comes.
Jacob wrestles — with a stranger, with God, with his own past — we’re not quite sure.
But he doesn’t let go. He holds on through the night, even as he’s wounded, even as he’s exhausted. And when the dawn breaks, he limps away, changed.
He calls the place Peniel — “the face of God” — because he’s seen God, and somehow survived. That image — holding on until the light comes — feels true for so many of us. Faith is not about having the right answers; it’s about refusing to let go when the night is long.
The widow, too, refuses to let go. She’s not powerful. She’s not connected. She has no lawyer, no status, no leverage — only her voice, her persistence, her faith that justice still matters. And Jesus says he tells this story “so that we might pray always and not lose heart.”
It’s easy to hear that as “just keep praying,” but I think Jesus means something deeper.
Prayer isn’t about wearing God down — but it might be about letting God wear us down.
Letting God soften our hearts until we start acting with the same persistence, the same compassion, the same refusal to give up on the world that God has.
And maybe that’s what prayer really is — the place where we keep wrestling with God until something changes. And maybe sometimes what changes… is us.
Two years ago at Synod, I spoke passionately about modern slavery. Everyone agreed with me. We passed the motion. The Archbishop asked me to lead on training clergy — and I said yes. And then life filled up, and I did… nothing.
Yesterday we were at Synod again, and it fell on Anti-Slavery Day, and that stung — because I had to admit that I’d failed to do what I had said I would.
And maybe that’s where this gospel meets us — in the space between conviction and persistence. Between what we said we’d do and what we’ve actually done.
Jacob wrestled through the night and limped into the dawn.
The widow knocked and knocked until justice came. And faith looks a bit like that:
Not polished, not triumphant, but faithful, bruised, limping, still refusing to let go.
When Jesus tells this story, it’s just before he turns toward Jerusalem. The shadow of the cross is already falling across the page. He knows what it means to persist in love when the outcome looks hopeless. To keep forgiving, to keep healing, to keep loving people who will betray and abandon him. He knows what it is to wrestle in the dark garden, saying, “Not my will, but yours.” And still he holds on until the light comes —until dawn breaks over an empty tomb.
The psalm today said:
“My help comes from God, who neither slumbers nor sleeps.”
That’s the heartbeat of this whole story:
Even when we grow weary, even when we lose heart, God does not.
God stays awake beside every person still enslaved, still forgotten, still crying out.
God stays with us in the struggle, whispering, Hold on. Don’t let go. The light will come.
When I look back at my own faith, I can see all the nights I’ve let go too soon —
But I can also see the people who’ve taught me what holding on looks like. The survivors of slavery, rebuilding their lives with fierce courage. The widows of the world, still knocking on doors that should have opened long ago. They are the face of God to me. They are the ones who teach me to keep wrestling. Faith, at its simplest, is holding on. Holding on when we don’t see the outcome. Holding on when the promises of God seem far off. Holding on when our hearts are heavy and our hope is thin. And when the light finally comes — when the dawn breaks over the wrestling ground, or the courtroom, or the cross — we discover that God was never the opponent. God was always the one holding us. So if you are weary today, if your faith feels more like a limp than a leap — take heart. You’re in good company. You’re in the company of Jacob, and of the widow, and Jesus himself. Keep holding on until the light comes.
And when it does, let it find you still wrestling, still hoping, still loving. Amen.
Let’s pray…
God of the long night, when our prayers feel unanswered
and the darkness seems to stretch on forever —
teach us to hold on until the light comes.
Give us courage to wrestle for justice, patience to wait with those who weep,
and hearts that do not grow weary in love.
Stand beside all who cry out for peace this day —
in Gaza, in our own streets, in every place of fear —
and let your dawn come swiftly.
Through Christ, who wrestled and rose, and lives to bring light to all. Amen.
Holy Adventures 