"The Temptations - Not Just My Imagination"

Matthew 4:1-11

Then Jesus was led up, by the Spirit, into the wilderness, to be tempted by the devil. He fasted forty days and forty nights and afterward, he was famished.

Then the tempter came and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become loaves of bread.” Jesus answered him saying, “It is written, ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’

Then the devil brought Jesus to the holy city and placed him atop the pinnacle of the temple and said to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down from here, for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘on their hands they will bear you up so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’” Jesus said to him, “Again, it is written, ‘Do not put the Lord, your God, to the test.’”

Then the devil led Jesus up a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world, and their splendor, and said to him, “All of this I will give to you, if you will bow down and worship me.” Jesus said to him, “Away with you Satan, for it is written, ‘You shall love the Lord, your God, and serve only him.”

Then the devil left him and suddenly angels came and waited on him.

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I decided this time around that I’ve always given the devil – “the Tempter” – in this pretty popular story from Scripture more credit than him deserve. I mean this story of Jesus in the wilderness being tempted by Satan has always seemed to me like a depiction of a cosmic, sweeping, grand battle of wit and wisdom between the powers of good and evil; between the Son of God and the personification of all Wickedness; between the Source of all light and goodness, in Jesus, and the Depth of all darkness and sin, in the Devil.

I’ve imagined and seen many and various depictions – movies, paintings, television mini-series, Sunday School felt boards and coloring books – of Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness that have fed this grandiosity over the years. Maybe you have too.

So, in my mind it’s like Jesus leaves the safe, comfortable confines of Capernaum in Galilee, is led out into the wilderness of some expansive desert (sand, dust, and dry, scorching heat) – or maybe it’s an oppressively dark forest like the haunted one in the Wizard of Oz – and, as if in a time machine or a whirlwind or a cloud – maybe on a magic carpet, I don’t know – he gets transported from place to place, with the Devil in tow, for these moments of temptation, these other-worldly tests of will, to do battle with a Force … with an Adversary … the very Prince of Darkness.

And, famished from a forty day fast, Jesus is tempted to turn stones to bread. With a chance to fly, Jesus is tempted to leap from the top of the temple in Jerusalem and be rescued by angels. With a bird’s-eye view of the whole, wide world, he’s given the option to rule over all of it.

And each time, rather than take the bait, Jesus proves not only his resolve, his restraint and his faithfulness, he proves how well he knows his Scripture.

“It is written – one does not live by bread alone.”

“It is written – do not put God to the test.”

“It is written – worship God, and God alone.”

And when it’s all said and done… when he has passed every test… when he has resisted whatever the Devil can dish out… I imagine Jesus wiping the sweat from his brow, maybe collapsing in a heap like Rocky Balboa in the corner of the ring after the fight, and being tended to by angels – fed and nourished, satiated with a cold drink, his brow wiped, his feet washed, his shoulders massaged, fanned – perhaps by the cool breeze of ten-thousand angels’ wings.

And I’ve imagined Satan disappearing in a cloud of thick darkness; or being swallowed up by an earthquake, descending to the place of weeping and gnashing of teeth from whence he came; maybe with an everlasting roar of anger and rage; maybe with a shaking of fists and a belch of fire; certainly with his proverbially pointed tail slithering between his legs.

But what if I’ve been overthinking it? What if we’ve made more of these temptations … too much of this wilderness and of the ways Jesus is tested by the evil that surrounds him? What if, like so much else in Scripture, the special effects get in the way of the story? And what if all of that makes it hard to find the meaningful place where the rubber of it all meets the road of our lives of faith in this world?

I mean, I’ve never known real hunger – so stones-to-bread isn’t something I’d find all that tempting, let alone possible.

I have a very real, legitimate fear of heights – so that stunt from the pinnacle of the temple is never happening.

And I’m no Vladmir Putin so ruling over the nations isn’t my thing.

So, if you and I are supposed to find some common ground with Jesus today – if all of this temptation stuff is supposed to mean something for us – maybe we can think differently about it for a change. Maybe it’s smaller and closer to home than I’ve imagined all these years.

What if the devil in the wilderness … what if all of those tests … aren’t as cosmic or as confounding as the magic of turning stones to bread or as dramatic as a swan dive from the top of the temple or as sweeping and world-domination?

What if the devil in our wilderness, with all of those questions … with the many and various ways over the course of any given day that we’re tempted to follow the wrong path, to choose the wrong, to opt for darkness rather than light … what if our “Tempter” is less like a fire-breathing snake with a pitch fork and more like a toddler, following us around the grocery story – pestering us with questions about every. little. thing. until we buckle under the weight of that persistence?

Doesn’t it seem like that’s more the way temptation weasels its way into our hearts and minds and lives in this world? Small things. Things we can justify or excuse or ignore … until we can’t anymore. Even the big stuff that tempts the most desperate addict can happen in seemingly insignificant increments. Whether it’s food or alcohol, porn or nicotine – the temptations come one nibble, one sip, one click, one puff at a time, right?

But our temptations don’t have to be so tangible, obvious or immediately destructive as all that. Maybe it’s that little white lie we tell or the gossip we engage; that angry outburst or deliberate, selfish disengagement from someone who needs our attention. Maybe it’s the selfishness or pride known only to us, God and the tempter, himself. There are as many temptations to choose something other than the God-pleasing faithfulness we long for as there are people in this room and seconds in a day, I suppose. Big, small and everywhere in between.

So, what if Jesus’ temptation to turn stones into bread is for us not about satiating our own hunger after a forty day fast, but a call to consider using our abundance and excess to share bread with the world, instead?

What if Jesus’ temptation to leap from the temple isn’t about seeing if God will rescue us from our next emergency, but more about an invitation to remember that we’re already being saved, right where we are, in the midst of whatever stress or struggle befalls us?

What Jesus’ temptation for power isn’t about ruling the world for you and me, but, instead, about how we treat our kids or our classmates; our spouse or neighbor; our colleagues and co-workers; or our fellow Cross of Gracers, maybe?

What if the temptation to stand on that very high mountain, able to see and to long for all that isn’t ours is really about simply being grateful to enjoy the view, for a change?

I guess what I’m saying is that – in these Lenten days – as we try to focus more deliberately on our journey of discipleship; as we make our proverbial walk to the cross of Good Friday and as we hope for the good news of Easter’s resurrection; that all of this can seem so big; so grandiose; so out of reach, out of touch, out of this world sometimes. But that it’s supposed to matter here and now, day to day, right where we live.

And the choices we make, right where we live, might seem small in the moment and by comparison to what we read about in Jesus’ temptations. And that may make them easy to dismiss or disregard as having any great consequence for us or for others. But, this time around, I’m reminded that that’s not the case.

Today’s story shows us that Jesus chose sacrifice, so that we can, too. Jesus chose vulnerability, so that we can, too. Jesus chose humility, faithfulness and the ways of God, so that we can, too. And in the days ahead, he’ll keep showing us that – even when we can’t or won’t or don’t always choose what’s right or best or most faithful – that God’s grace, love, mercy and forgiveness choose us anyway, every time.

Amen

"Dust and Defiant Discipleship"

Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21

‘Beware of practicing your piety before others in order to be seen by them; for then you have no reward from your Father in heaven. So whenever you give alms, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, so that they may be praised by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your alms may be done in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

‘And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

‘And whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show others that they are fasting. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But when you fast, put oil on your head and wash your face, so that your fasting may be seen not by others but by your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

‘Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’

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My wife, Christa, has complained about the dust in our house for years – as though it was any more prolific than anyone else’s dust. I never wanted to give her complaints much credence – mainly for two reasons. The first is that her main theory revolved around the dogs – who become MY dogs, of course – whenever there’s a problem like the copious amounts of hair they leave laying around, especially at this time of year; or the damn dog dander she deduced must certainly be the source of our abundance of dust. The second reason I never wanted to give her complaints much credence is because, as soon as I did that, I would have a dust cloth in my hand and a chore to do.

Well, a few months ago, we had the privilege of having a new furnace installed at 3872 Redbird Trail. I say it was a privilege because we were never without heat, nor did we have to worry about our pipes freezing, enduring a cold night’s sleep, or anything like that. Ours was a pre-emptive home improvement based on the prediction of the technician who did the regular, seasonal maintenance on our decades-old furnace and warned us that, sooner rather than later, we’d be replacing the unit whether we wanted to or not.

Anyway, when they dismantled the old furnace to install the new one, they found the sheet metal ductwork that sat on the ground in our crawl-space, had completely rusted and rotted to nothing but dust. Our old, dying furnace, which had a terrible filter system to begin with, was literally sitting on the ground, in its own dust, and had been blowing said dust up, into and throughout our house, for God knows how long.

Now this revelation was both good and bad. The good news was that our dust problem wasn’t the fault of MY dogs, after all. The bad news, of course, was that Christa had been right. The dust in our house was apparently more prolific than anyone else’s dust; and what’s more, I had been perfectly comfortable living in denial about that, pretending that it couldn’t possibly be true.

I got a call from the paper last week wanting to know about Lent, generally. The writer wanted to know about what we do and about why we do what we do, as a church who seems to make our way through the season of Lent more deliberately than some other flavors of Christians do. I feel like that’s true – that we do Lent a bit more deliberately around here than some others – but I didn’t know anyone else had noticed, so I was pleasantly surprised by the chance to talk about it.

So, of course I told her about our midweek Wednesday meals and worship. I told her about Holy Week prayer vigils and other worship services like Good Friday and Maundy Thursday, where we’re used to celebrating “First Communion” with our young people, stripping the altar, sometimes washing feet. And, of course, I told her about tonight – this Ash Wednesday stuff – where we begin all of it together with a smudge of dust and ashes on our foreheads. I even told her about how some of us get our ashes imposed in the columbarium – surrounded by the ashes of those who’ve gone before us – and she seemed particularly interested in that.

And I told her that, generally, for me, Lent – as a spiritual discipline – is about acknowledging that life in the world is hard. I think we do ourselves and the world around us a dis-service when we pretend having faith makes everything easier all of the time. Like, yeah, “God is good all the time and all the time God is good,” as some like to say. But God never promised there wouldn’t be suffering and struggle and hardship and adversity along the way.

I think too many people believe that too many of us believe that, because of our faith, we don’t or shouldn’t have to suffer or struggle or ENDURE, what so many out there in the world suffer through, struggle with or ENDURE, in this life. But looking around this room, I know that you and I know, that this couldn’t be further from the truth of our experience.

There is divorce and cancer; addictions and diseases of all kinds.

There are floods and wildfires; mass shootings and war; chemical spills and spy balloons.

There are racists, homophobes, and bullies.

There is sin and shame and sadness and regret that get the best of us, too much of the time.

But, rather than see these ashes on our foreheads and the beginning of another Lenten walk as an act of despair or self-flagellation; as a “woe-is-me” kind of fatalism, or some navel-gazing resignation to the sin that surrounds us, I’d like to invite you to let all of it – these ashes and these Lenten days – be an honest, brave, faithful, defiant, hope-filled engagement with the dust that covers us in this world.

This is an opportunity to acknowledge that the dust of our sin and struggle can feel – and be – heavier some days; and more-so for some of us than others. And it’s an invitation not to ignore that dust – as some of us are wont to do.

It’s an invitation to see it, to name it, to wear it, even – the dust and ashes of our sin and struggle – not pride-fully or with some sort of false humility, either. But so we might acknowledge and proclaim that none of us is alone in this.

And all of this is a chance to do as Jesus suggests and expects us to do:

We pray. We give our offering. We fast, perhaps. We put our faith, our time and our treasures, not in earthly, mortal, temporary things that rot and rust – but into the hands and heart of God. And these things we do – these exercises of faith – these acts of discipleship – are not meant to be chores. We don’t do them because we have to. We do them because we get to. We don’t do them because they will clean or clear away all the dust the continues to pile up among us. We do these things – we practice our faith – we live as disciples – precisely because we cannot clean or clear away any of it all on our own.

All of this is an exercise in trusting and proclaiming that the hard stuff won’t win; it won’t last forever; the dust and despair never get the last word, because God has… God does… and God will always have the last word.

Here and now we remember that we are dust … so much dust … and that we will be again, someday.

But here… now… and in the days to come… we are invited to hold out hope … so much hope … that God makes beautiful things out of the dust; that God can’t wait to redeem whatever is lost, to fix whatever is broken, to heal what is hurting, to find what is lost, to raise what is dead, even – through the love we know – and the life we share – in Jesus Christ, our Lord

Amen