The Limp That Changed Nothing
August 16, 2025 - Genesis 33
I’m Pastor Rich Bitterman, a country preacher from the Ozarks. Guy Howard, the old Walking Preacher, once wore out his boots traveling from church to church, meeting strangers and sharing the gospel. I’m doing the same today on digital roads. Each post is a visit. Each verse is a step. Let’s walk the Word together.
🪔 Today’s Truth:
A limp means nothing if the heart still runs from God.
He limped into sunlight.
The dust had not yet settled from the night before. He still felt it in his hip, raw and sore. The tendon had snapped like a rope pulled too tight, and now every step reminded him: You wrestled with God. You would not let go. He touched you, and you survived.
The sun rose over the river. And Jacob, the man once named Israel, walked forward unchanged.
Dust on the Horizon
He saw them before they saw him. Four hundred men, their shapes flickering in the morning haze. Esau at the front.
Jacob’s heart beat faster than his feet could carry him. The limp held him back, but not enough to change his plan. He divided the women and children like livestock. The servants with their sons up front. Leah and her children behind. And Rachel, the favorite, with Joseph last of all.
Let the expendable ones fall first, he must have thought. If Esau draws his sword, they will die in layers.
And then Jacob, that limping man who met God, dropped to his knees and bowed. Once. Then again. And again. Seven times before he reached his brother.
The same old dance of manipulation, just with a sore leg now.
He had seen angels. He had touched the heel of heaven. But when it came to facing Esau, he still bowed like a coward.
The limp didn’t reach his heart.
A Brother Running
Esau ran.
That’s what broke the scene open. Not vengeance. Just the sight of a man who had every right to kill…running.
He embraced Jacob. Fell on his neck. Kissed him. They wept.
It’s the same image Jesus would one day use to describe a father sprinting toward a prodigal.
Only this prodigal didn’t come home. He came with schemes. With gifts. With flattery.
Jacob said, “Seeing your face is like seeing the face of God.” He had said the same thing at Peniel, but this time, it was different. This time, it was theater. A line meant to smooth things over. Esau didn’t need it. Jacob couldn’t help himself.
And then Esau offered to travel with him.
But Jacob said no.
Esau offered protection.
Again, Jacob declined.
He lied. “I’ll follow you to Seir.” But when Esau disappeared into the distance, Jacob turned the other way.
He had looked into the eyes of forgiveness and distrusted it. He had received mercy and dodged it. He had seen the face of a brother and turned his back on him.
He let Esau down. He let grace go unanswered.
A Tent Facing the City
He stopped at Shechem.
Not Bethel.
Bethel was the place God had told him to return. Bethel, where heaven opened on a ladder and the Lord stood above it. Bethel, where Jacob had vowed that if God brought him back, he would serve Him there.
But Shechem had convenience. Shechem had land.
So he bought a field.
God had promised him the land. Jacob paid for it anyway.
He set up a house. Built pens for his flocks. And after the nails were hammered, the fence secured, the rooms arranged, then he built an altar. He named it El-Elohe-Israel. God, the God of Israel.
It sounded holy.
But God wasn’t calling him Israel.
God still called him Jacob.
This was a man who pitched his tent toward the city and told himself he still worshiped the Lord. He didn’t live in the world. But he lived close enough to let it raise his daughter.
He let his altar follow his comfort.
A Daughter Walking Alone
Her name was Dinah. She was young. Curious. Surrounded by brothers and dust and sheep.
She stepped into the city.
Just a short walk, probably. A chance to meet some other girls, see the marketplace, hear laughter that didn’t belong to nomads. But the man named Shechem, prince of the land, saw her. Took her. Kept her.
And Jacob said nothing.
The brothers spoke instead. They negotiated. They agreed to intermarriage if every man in Shechem would be circumcised.
Shechem agreed. So did the men.
And on the third day, while they were sore and recovering, Simeon and Levi came with blades. They killed them all.
Tore the city open. Stole the women. Carried off the goods. Left a trail of blood behind them and smoke curling into the sky.
When it was over, Jacob finally spoke.
“You have made me stink,” he said.
Not, “You’ve sinned.” Not, “You’ve broken the covenant.” Not even, “You’ve dishonored your sister.”
Just: You’ve embarrassed me.
He had put her near the city. He had known better. He had promised Bethel and settled in Shechem. He had taught his sons how to lie. They had simply taken his ways a step further.
What he sowed in compromise, they reaped in cruelty.
The Silence Between Two Names
He had been given a new name.
Israel. A prince with God.
But in Genesis 33, the name is absent. He calls himself Israel once at the end, when naming the altar. But God does not repeat it. The narrator avoids it. The text knows: this man is not yet living in his new name.
He is Jacob.
Still grabbing heels. Still scheming. Still surviving by manipulation and hiding from the very grace that had embraced him.
He met God face-to-face and went back to being himself.
The question lingers over the text like smoke over Shechem:
What good is a limp if it doesn’t change the heart?
The Weight of the Wasted Encounter
He had the altar. He had the scar. He had the promises.
But he didn’t have obedience.
That’s what’s so terrifying about Jacob’s story. You can wrestle with God. You can weep in prayer. You can name the place and limp away with tears still on your cheek.
And still live like nothing happened.
He heard the voice of God and chose the voice of pragmatism. He bowed to the wrong person. He flattered where he should have trusted. He settled where he should have moved. He lied when he should have walked in truth.
The most dangerous thing about spiritual experience is how easily we forget it.
But Still…
Still, God would call Himself the God of Jacob.
Still, from Judah…a son with blood on his hands…would come the Lion of the tribe.
Still, grace would outpace failure.
Not because Jacob deserved it. But because the Lord does not abandon those He names.
But grace is not permission to stay in Shechem.
There is no safety outside of Bethel. No rest until the altar comes first. No blessing while compromise governs the household.
The limp alone will not save you.
Only returning will.
Let the Final Word Be This:
Bethel waits. The stones are still there. The ladder still reaches up. The Lord still calls.
Limp if you must.
But come home.
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My grandson Weston…Powered by smiles and a little too much speed!
“He met God face-to-face and went back to being himself.”
Thank you. Relatable. You write led by the Holy Spirit with a sense of urgency toward man and the honor and grace of God.
Thanks for writing this brother. I never picked up on this aspect of Jacob / Israel's life, despite the fact I've read Genesis multiple times! It's a humbling reminder of the necessity for us to run to Christ and stop thinking we can go our own way.