"When the devil had finished every test,
he departed from him until an opportune time.” (Luke 4:13)
I guess the smart dudes who cooked up the
Revised Common Lectionary decided to liken our journey through the forty days
of Lent to the journey of the Israelites through the wilderness in the Exodus
story. That’s why they hooked up the story of Jesus’ forty days in the
wilderness (Luke 4:1-13) with the story of how the Israelites were saved from
Egypt and survived forty years in the wild as told in Deuteronomy 26:1-11.
So good. Now we know there’s a “wilderness”
motif in the lessons for Lent 1. Not being a great outdoors man myself, all I
can say about the wilderness is there’s lots of scary stuff in it. Depending on
where your wilderness is, there’s sweat-boiling heat or butt-hugging cold.
There’s hunger and thirst. There’s snakes and bugs or bears and mountain lions.
Give me the city any day. The wilderness is just too dangerous a place!
But we all end up in our own metaphorical wilderness—our
lonely and dangerous place—at some time or other, don’t we? That’s what this
story in the Gospels has always meant to me: Jesus had to face the same crap I
have to face. The devil and temptation were after him, too. If Jesus’ story
didn’t include episodes which resonate with my own life, I don’t think I’d find
him to be such an attractive Lord and Savior. I think it’s pretty important to
note in our story that it’s God’s Spirit (v.1) which forces Jesus into the
wilderness. If we’re to love him, we have to know that he went through the same
initiation test.
Our wilderness can take a whole bunch of
different topographies. If, like Jesus, you’ve just had an experience which
makes you feel like the heavens have opened and showered glory on you—like you’ve
got the whole world by the Fruit of the Looms—you’re headed for temptation. If
you find yourself shut out, lonely, angry, or hungry, get ready to encounter
the devil.
A word about the devil. The Greek word
Luke uses for this character is diabolos (That’s
diabolos for you who like to see it written in Greek.[i]). It actually refers to an
accuser or one who spreads wicked gossip. Maybe you don’t believe in an
anthropomorphized devil with horns and a pointed tail. I don’t either. But you
should believe that nothing exists without its opposite. If there is a Spirit
which calls us to love and sacrifice and be joyful in creation, there can also
be the dark, frightening absence of such a spirit. And in that dark wilderness
is the voice of lies and accusation and doubt. That empty spirit causes us to question
God’s goodness and our own worth. It leads us to choices we’d be better off not
making. It leads us to shame and inadequacy and resentment.
In this Gospel lesson, the devil tries to
goad Jesus. “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become a loaf
of bread (v. 3)” Greek scholars[ii] tell us that the way the
word “if” is used here really means “since you ARE the Son of God.” It suggests
that Jesus is somehow not doing something he should do. It’s a trap to turn him
away from the promise and mission he’d been given and make himself the hero of
what should be God’s story. He will face this temptation throughout the Gospel
narrative.
But this empty, inadequate, shameful
spirit is with us, too. When we come to Christ, as a child does in baptism, we
are asked to renounce the forces of evil as well as the powers of this world—our
culture—which rebel against God. We are constantly hearing the whisper that we’re
not young enough, pretty enough, rich enough, interesting enough, experienced
enough, educated enough, or important enough. A consumer-based and fame-based
culture is constantly filling us with shame covetousness, and alienation. Such
feelings ultimately lead to resentment and anger or misery and despair. It’s as
if the devil says to us, “If you are God’s child, why aren’t you better than
you are?”
If we are not driven by the Spirit of God,
our focus ultimately falls on ourselves. That’s why the baptismal rite also
asks us to renounce the ways of sin which draw each of us personally away from
God. If we try to be the center of our own universe, if we try to measure up,
we’ll never find peace. This is what Martin Luther learned. We’re never enough.
We can only rest in God’s grace.
So there it is. We have some good news and
some bad news. The bad news that our Gospel lesson and our Lenten focus on contrition
force us to face is that the temptation never really goes away. The devil only
left Jesus, the story says, until an opportune time (v.13). But the good news
is this: The accusations, the doubt, the shame, the loneliness—don’t win.
Ultimately, they don’t have the power. Jesus did his time in the wilderness and
so will we; nevertheless, just as he overcame, we, too, will overcome.
This our canteen in the wilderness.
Thanks again for looking in on me this
week. God bless!
[i] I
always feel like a real smart ass when I can translate from Greek.
[ii] I
had to look this one up on the internet. I’m not THAT smart!
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