Wilderness days
Luke 4: 1-13
New Ark United Church of Christ, Newark, DE
February 14, 2016
“Not a lot of hotel selection in the desert, so I was thankful when I saw their shimmering vacancy sign. Baggage lady was cute but utterly unhelpful, constantly flirting with other hotel guests.
“Hit
up the bar, asked for a Guinness, and they didn’t carry it! The bartender said they haven’t had it since
1969! What the heck, buddy! Very disappointed in their draft selection.
“Noise
level was atrocious. In addition to
people constantly welcoming me, there was a beast loose? Staff assured me they were stabbing it with
their steely knives, but I’m fairly confident that did nothing to help.
“Took
forever to check out, their systems are ancient. The guitar solo was nice though.”
So
said Tony V. in his review on Yelp.com. When
Jesus walked into the desert, he wasn’t checking into the Hotel California, or
checking out, for that matter, but rather getting ready for what would be the
rest of his short life. Just before this
part in his story, Jesus had his baptism in the Jordan River, as preparation
for his vocation as a rabbi. In the
Jewish faith as in many others including Christian, the use of water represents
change and transformation. The Spirit
alighted on him like a dove, and God called him ‘beloved’. Now the Spirit is leading Jesus into the
desert, and we don’t hear God’s voice at all.
In
the season of Epiphany, which begins with Jesus’ baptism, God reveals Godself
in a way that shows us that God is light.
In the season of Lent, which begins in the desert, God reveals Godself
in a way that shows us that God is in the dark:
in ashes and in solitude, in silence and in absence.
Getting
into Lent is like an encounter with every hard thing about being human. No wonder we don’t like it or look forward to
it. God desires that we would see the
worst about ourselves, so that we could be in community with the one person we
can’t stand. God wants us to acknowledge
what it is we use to feel safe, so that we would face our lives without
illusion. God invites us to look our
inevitable death in the eye, so that we would live knowing that we are
powerless against it. “Remember that you
are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Repent, turn away from sin, and believe the good news, which is, that
God intends you for wholeness.”
Wholeness
means accepting the light and dark, joy and sorrow, the capacity to do good and
the capacity to do evil and everything in between; to allow God and ourselves
to see us as we are, all of it, the whole truth, and know deep down in our
bones that God calls us ‘beloved’.
Wholeness, realizing our belovedness,
is our vocation, our calling, who we’re meant to be.
But
who does the Spirit call to get at the truth but the devil. What we call the devil, the Jewish tradition
calls the ‘accuser’ or the ‘adversary’.
Actually, I like to imagine it was a wizened old rabbi, who lived in a
cave out in the desert, one of Jesus’ oldest professors, Dumbledore with an
attitude—a crabby, cantankerous, wise-as-a-serpent kind of guy who knew what
could be Jesus’ fatal flaws, along with the trouble he was heading for.
“My
poor dear boy, you’ve been fasting for a long time. Think you’re hungry now? Who do you think will feed a penniless peasant
like you? Come on, how about a little
magic? Why don’t you just turn these
stones into bread? It’s a long way
between here and Jerusalem.”
“It
takes more than bread to really live.”*
“No
one is going to give three figs about this kingdom of God you’ll be preaching
about. They want to know who’s in
charge, who’s going to throw the Romans out on their ear, who’s going to do
away with the wicked and reward the good.
Nobody cares about their souls! I’ll
give you power over human lives, and they’ll worship you for it!”
“Worship the Lord your God and only the Lord your God. Serve God with absolute single-heartedness.”[i]
“You’re
not going to have a single place to lay your head. No one will take care of you. You’ll be sleeping on the ground, in the
rain, walking in the stinking heat. And
you know how this is going to end, don’t you?That’s some God you’ve got
there. I thought God would send an angel
army to defend you, lift you out of trouble, even keep those precious feet of
yours from stumbling. Where’s God’s
power in that?”
“Do
not answer temptation by tempting the Lord your God.”
This
accuser, this adversary offers Jesus security.
Jesus chooses uncertainty. Instead
of safety, Jesus decides to live with risk.
When given the opportunity to seize power, Jesus opts for weakness. These are the foundation of Jesus’ ministry. At his most vulnerable, famished, and
exhausted, Jesus finds his bedrock and it is unshakable. But to us it sounds like even more
wilderness: uncertainty, risk, and
weakness.
And
yet this is precisely where the Spirit calls the Church to be—in the desert,
the wilderness, on the margins.
Uncertainty, risk, and weakness are our calling, our vocation, who we’re
meant to be, how we’ll find wholeness, and realize our belovedness.
Of
course it doesn’t feel that way. After
all, what’s so wrong with wanting some security and safety and maybe a little
power to influence the communities we live in?
What if someone left this church a million dollars? Think of all the good we could do. We could build a dozen Habitat homes. We could give the Empowerment Center
everything they need and then some. We
could establish a college fund; help provide more mental health services and
substance abuse programs. Plus we’d put
some aside to take care of this old building and ensure it would be here for
our great-grandchildren. How bad could
that be?
Fr.
Richard Rohr writes that “we can only be tempted to something that is good on
some level…Temptations are always about ‘good’ things, or we could not be
tempted…Most people’s daily ethical choices are not between total good and
total evil, but between various shades of good… .”[ii]
Security, safety, and
power are good in many ways. But they’re
also seductive, sounding like so many political campaign promises. As followers of Jesus they are also wonderful
hooks for our egos. We are tempted to
rely upon our own limited wisdom and think ourselves sufficient. It can be all too easy to be lulled into a
false sense of security, safety, and power.
And so Jesus, having been led by the Holy Spirit, does not quote God’s
commands in his responses but draws on the wisdom tradition of his faith.
Acknowledging
that life is uncertain, that Love entails risk, and that we are powerless to
save even ourselves, let alone anyone else, is what can restore us to wholeness
in these wilderness days. When we pray
“thy will be done”, what it means is “not my will”. I don’t know exactly what God’s will looks
like on any given day. But I’m pretty
sure it doesn’t look like mine. My will
is often conflicted with fear and struggle as much as it is full of hope and
faith.
I’m
not sure why, but casting our lot with God and being utterly dependent on a
power we cannot see feels like defeat to us human beings, like we’ve failed
somehow. As if we’ve moved back in with
our parents. In the basement. But then again, we’re Church, the Body of
Christ, where success looks like a cross.
“Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Repent, turn away from sin, and believe the good news, which is, that God intends you for wholeness.” Amen.
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