The Tempting Cinder Block (Reflections on Lent 1, Year A 2023)

 

Then the devil left him, and suddenly angels came and waited on him. (Matthew 4:11)

I don’t talk about this much, but one of the less-attractive aspects of my life is the fact that I’m an alcoholic. This is a rather unfortunate characteristic for one whose job requires taking a small sip of wine every Sunday morning, but I rather consider that small sip as the true blood of our Lord and Savior, so it hasn’t done me any harm in the 30+ years since I’ve avoided less temperate indulgence. That being said, like all stupid drinkers, I came to a point where I realized I just wasn’t having any fun anymore. I decided it was time for me to give up this nasty habit which was proving to be both expensive and conducive to promoting the less convivial aspects of my otherwise sunny personality. The problem, however, was I had grown so accustomed to having booze in my life that I didn’t know who I was or what I’d do without it. 

My own analogy for addiction looks something like this: Imagine your life as a bookshelf. You can picture on that shelf the brightly colored spines of an impressive collection of erudite tomes—books of philosophy and art and all manner of knowledge. These are the stuff of your life and personality. Except that the books aren’t real. What is really on the shelf is your addiction. It’s a great big cinder block taking up space, but painted up to look like all the magnificent aspects you wish your life would contain. This block is filling the shelf, and if you want to put something real and truly valuable there, you’re going to have to get rid of the cinder block. 

But here’s the problem. Once you remove the cinder block, the shelf is empty. You look at it and feel like you have nothing. You become too impatient to find the valuable things which should really be on that shelf, so you give in to temptation and slam the cinder block back on it. It may be an empty waste of the space of your life, but at least it’s something. Or so you think. 

This is the situation we find Jesus in in our gospel reading for Lent 1, Year A (Matthew 4:1-11). Up to this point, he’s been a carpenter. I’m sure he had plenty of work to do. Now, however, he’s encountered John the Baptist, he’s been baptized, the Holy Spirit has descended upon  him, and God’s voice has declared him God’s beloved son. Everything normal and familiar is gone, and the Spirit sends him out into the wilderness, away from everybody and with nothing to eat. 

How would you feel when everything familiar has slipped away? Here’s Jesus in a transitional stage. He’s left his old life. He’s got no one to talk to. He’s got nothing to eat. He’s in a desert and, as far as the eye can see, there’s nothing to look at. Was he frightened, do you think? Was he lonely? Did he feel confused? How would you feel? 

This is the moment when temptation always seems to strike. Whenever we feel we’ve lost something familiar—even if that thing was toxic to us—we become vulnerable. Maybe it was a bad relationship. Maybe it was a job. Maybe it was your health or a favorite hobby you can’t do anymore. Maybe you’ve retired and are sitting at home wondering what to do with your time. Maybe your children have gone off to college or moved away and you no longer have the identity of being a parent and care-giver anymore. Maybe your spouse has died. At such moments the Devil loves to whisper stupid stuff in your ears. 

Every transition is a little death. It’s always tempting to dwell on what was lost instead of focusing on the possibilities of what may be ahead. Grief can take us into really frightening places, places where we’d rather eat the rocks of bitterness than taste the real bread of life. Or perhaps we’re ready to throw ourselves off the pinnacle of the temple. It may not be a temptation to suicide, but a great temptation to think because something that mattered has gone, nothing matters anymore. There may be the temptation to despair, which Luther called a “great and shameful sin.[i]” 

So here’s Jesus all alone in a wasteland facing the Devil by himself. What does he have to defend himself with? He has God’s Word. He has the promise of scripture. But I take comfort in two things. First, that Jesus never was really alone. God was always there. In our times of liminal confusion and temptation, Jesus has been where we are. Jesus has felt the loneliness, the emptiness, and the temptation just as we do. There’s no place we’ll go where he hasn’t been. 

The second thing which really jumps out at me as I read this passage of the gospel again, is that angels were there to minister to the tempted. I would never have been able to beat my own addiction if it hadn’t been for those in whom I confided, to whom I confess, and who were there to say, “Yeah, I’ve been there too.” 

When I’m called on to officiate a funeral service, I always close my interview with the grieving family members with a prayer. I pray that God will put into their lives the people who need to be there, who will be understanding and supportive during this wilderness time. So often in my own life, in times of transition, I’ve been waited on by God’s messengers in human form. 

Our wilderness times can be challenging and frightening and leave us vulnerable to temptation. But God’s Word dwells within us, and God’s angels are never far away.

Perhaps you'll be an angel yourself this week. A blessed Lent, my friend, and thanks for stopping by.

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[i] See Luther’s explanation to the Sixth Petition of the Lord’s Prayer in the Small Catechism.