Listen, I know I have to wrestle with God. Probably for the rest of my stay on this here earth. And, like Jacob, I feel like I have to take a few of God's cheap shots before I can get through this stuff. That hip dislocation trick was downright dirty. Bart Ehrmann wasn't a bag of laffs either. It might as well have been a mental hip break; it stopped me walking "normally."

But even if I am made to wrestle with him, even if that's exactly who he made me to be and what he made me to do, I can't do it all the time! I'm worn out, Gentle Reader. I feel like it's time to take a break from wrestlemania and retire to my corner.

And that's okay. What that means, practically speaking, is that I'm just not worrying about the spiritual trauma at the moment. I'm praying, talking to God, and even doing both with my wife. I feel that I can speak of spiritual things and with wisdom.

That is to say, to switch from wrassling metaphors to boxing, there are plenty of times when I need to put the gloves on and go a round with God. But I also need to hear the bell ring, and go sit on the chair and rest.

The funny thing is that the God who has such a propensity for hitting below the belt is the same guy who hands me a towel and squirts water in my mouth between rounds.

That looks absurd even as I write it, but somehow it's true.