Genesis 28:10-19a
We were there—Cindy Booth, Sarah MacLennan, Fran, Fran’s Dad Reese, and I—on our pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 2012. We were there, at the place traditionally identified as the site of Jacob’s life-changing dream.
I decided to see if I could enter into the story more fully. I lay down on the rock where Jacob had his dream. What dream might emerge for me? Might I too have some vision of the presence of God, or even the promise of God?
Lying on that sacred rock, I did not feel the peace of God’s presence. I felt a profound sense of discomfort—a holy discomfort.
There we were, at this sacred place, surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards. The site of Jacob’s dream is located in an Israeli settlement built on the West Bank. It was an oasis in the desert, with well-cared-for houses, community centers with swimming pools. Some of the families living there carried memories of parents who died in the Holocaust. They just wanted a good life. The walls and check points were designed to keep them feeling safe and to keep out Palestinians, families who had also suffered, who also just wanted a good life.
When we arrived at the site of Jacob’s dream, our guide from the settlement read this passage from Genesis. He pointed to the rock. See, he said, this is our land. God gave it to us.
On our trip, we had talked with many Israelis and Palestinians and heard many different perspectives. This man’s interpretation of scripture was his own. Other Israelis brought a variety of understandings of this passage and also of their sacred connection to the land of Israel.
It was uncomfortable to lie on that rock, and not just because it was a rock. It was disquieting to feel the connection between Jacob’s wonder at God’s presence and the claim of ownership of all he could see. It was disconcerting to feel the threat of violence in a holy space, and to think of the Palestinians we had met who were kept out while we were welcomed in. It was disturbing to move beyond the particular pain of Israel and Palestine and think about the way our own forebears cheated Native Americans out of their land, about our own distorted expressions of manifest destiny. It was distressing to recognize within myself that human inclination to twist the experience of wonder at God’s blessing into a quest to possess and control. When and how am I hooked by that particular distortion of our faith? It was a holy moment of discomfort, lying on that sacred rock.
Eight years later, the biblical story appeared in this week’s suggested readings. As I read it, I thought of my uncomfortable rest on the rock. I found myself thinking as well of a much more recent, much more comfortable moment, sitting on Rick Robinson’s back patio, masked and socially distanced. Rick and I had just finished planning the interment service for Barb at Massachusetts National Cemetery in Bourne.
“There’s something else I wanted to talk about,” Rick said. “It’s the final hymn we’ve been singing this season. I have a problem with the last line of the first verse.”
I was puzzled for a moment, trying to remember which verse was which. I knew he was talking about “Every time I feel the spirit.” “Which line?” I asked.
“‘Looked all around me; it looked so fine; I asked my God if all were mine.’ That doesn’t seem right,” Rick said. “Isn’t that part of the problem today—when people think we should possess everything?”
I’d always wondered about that line too, but no one had ever invited me to do anything more than just wonder.
“Maybe that verse turns the chorus into a prayer of confession,” I mused. “Maybe, when we ask God if it’s all mine, God says, no, it’s not yours. Suddenly, then, it doesn’t look so fine—or our own lives don’t look so fine. Maybe God’s answer makes us look at ourselves more closely and realize the ways we twist wonder into greed. That might be the spirit moving in our hearts that leads us to prayer—a prayer asking for help to change.”
Rick came at it from a different angle, getting right to the heart of the matter. “It depends on what you mean by ‘mine.’ Mine to enjoy, mine to appreciate—yes. But not mine to possess.”
I had another idea. “Maybe God’s answer to the question is ‘yes, it is yours—not yours to possess, but your responsibility to care for all that you see.’ That too would be the spirit moving in our hearts, leading us to pray for help, since that is a pretty overwhelming responsibility.”
As our conversation came to a close, I hinted to Rick that his comment might form the basis for a sermon sometime. I didn’t have in my mind that it would be just ten days later—until this scripture about wonder and blessing and possession appeared in the lectionary.
Before I went further in my own efforts to interpret this song, I did a little research. I knew it was an African-American spiritual. My internet browsing confirmed that, like many spirituals, this one has multiple layers of meaning. I found lots about the second verse: “Jordan River is chilly and cold, chills the body not the soul….” The words point to Jesus’ baptism, and evoke the promise of a warmed soul in our own experience of baptism. The Jordan River reminds us of the passage of the Hebrew people into the promised land, and pointed to freedom for enslaved people in our own nation who made it across the Ohio River. The next line, “There’s only one train on this track” was likely code for the underground railroad.
The only reference I could find to the first verse talked about the fire and smoke on the mountain, a reminder of Moses receiving God’s law. I found nothing about the line in question.
While my internet search yielded no answers, it did prompt me to try to imagine what this line might have meant when it was first sung. What might these words have meant to an enslaved person, who worked land that belonged to someone else, whose work enriched a master who claimed that person as “mine?”
One version I found used slightly different words: “Looked all around, it looked so fine, I asked my God could it be mine.” This line, perhaps, reflects a yearning for freedom and justice. It’s not about possessing land, but about not being possessed by someone else. It’s about having agency over one’s own life, having resources to care for family and loved ones. It is about the vision of shalom proclaimed by the prophet Micah: where everyone will sit beneath their own vine and fig tree and no one will make them afraid.
I thought of the statistics about the wide disparity in family net worth in our own state. A study published in the Boston Globe in December 2017 showed that the median net worth of African American households in Boston was $8, compared to $247,500 for white households. The prayer for justice and opportunity in this spiritual is as real today as it was when it emerged as a communal expression of yearning amongst enslaved people.
What does this perplexing line in our closing hymn mean? More importantly, how does it call us to live more faithfully?
Eight years ago, I lay down on Jacob’s rock and felt the presence of God—challenging me to honor the pain of Israelis and Palestinians, calling me to a deeper understanding of our human inclination to possess what we see, inviting me to look at my own life. Today, I invite you to join me in listening for the presence of God—the Spirit moving in our hearts—in our final hymn. How does the Spirit speak to you in this line?
“Looked all around; it looked so fine; I asked my God if all were mine.”
Are these words, for you, an invitation to confess your own inclination to twist wonder into the desire to possess? Are they a reminder that you can treasure something without needing to make it your own? Are they a call to action, challenging you to take responsibility for the healing of our planet? Perhaps they are an expression of your yearning for freedom and opportunity, your own vine and fig tree. Or an expression of your commitment to stand in solidarity with those who are seeking freedom and opportunity.
The song marks the end of the service and the beginning of a new week. How do these words call you to live courageously and faithfully in the coming week?
May the Spirit move in our hearts, leading us to prayer. May the Spirit move in our hearts—awakening us to wonder, calling us to let go, challenging us to take responsibility, inspiring us to solidarity. Amen.