Trust in the Wilderness [Lent 1C - Luke 4:1-13]

 The Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 4:1-13

 

Trust in the Wilderness

 

Forty-eight hours is the longest I have ever fasted.  Two days and not even close to forty.  And I was miserable.  Sitting hungry, in the woods, in the rain, with a plastic tarp.  And the only flat, stable surface was a rock, but there was a nest on the underside, filled with, what I think were, yellow jackets, or anyway something that stung.

 

And I so I sat on the saturated ground.  And rather than be enlightened, or become a holier person, I cursed the skies and the rain and my pants, which were too big, and my thumb, which I cut with my off-brand Swiss Army knife.  And the devil never arrived – either because he wasn’t impressed with my two day fast, or because he saw that he wasn’t needed.

 

Of the two wilderness stories we are given today, I relate much more to the one in Deuteronomy.  And not just because Jesus is much better than me at wilderness fasting, among other things, but because the people Moses addresses, these haggard wilderness people, had a much messier time of it.  And I guess that gives me some comfort.

 

If this Gospel story is meant to be template for this season of Lent, or a blueprint for the spiritual life, I am in trouble.  Because while we talk a lot, in church, about following Jesus, there are places Jesus goes and things Jesus does, that seem, let’s say, ambitious for your standard issue mortal. 

 

This wilderness retreat is a prime example.  Forty days in the wilderness is plenty difficult.  I feel fairly certain that Jesus wandered into the woods without any top-of-the-line camping gear.  They didn’t make wicking fabric back then; no thermal sleeping bag, no solar powered lantern, no phone to pass the minutes.  And also no food for six weeks – which is where Jesus really loses me.  It wasn’t a fast from, say, chocolate or refined sugar or all-beef patties; the Gospel says, and I quote, “He ate nothing at all during those days,” and then adds, rather unnecessarily, I think, “and when they, [the forty days,] were over, he was famished.”

 

It is in that famished state that Jesus proceeds to spiritually spar with the devil.  The devil probably thought it was a good time to come at Jesus: Jesus was weak with hunger and eager to go home.  But actually it was a terrible time because Jesus was probably never crankier.  He just went forty days without food.  I know people put on edge by a late lunch.

 

They call these temptations for a reason.  And right off the bat, it is clear what that reason is: they were really tempting.  After forty days of not eating, a nice loaf of forest bread probably looked like a feast of the finest French delicacies.  But it is bigger than food, the tempter is tempting Jesus to use his divine authority to satisfy his hungers – not just this hunger but all of the hungers that leave human beings desperate and longing for more.

 

And then also the devil offered power.  And maybe most precious of all: proof.

Proof is an amazingly clever temptation for a people with an unseen God.  Because wouldn’t it change everything if faith was not required, if the big questions were all answered, if the future was emptied of its perplexing mysteries?  If we could just know: know that God is with us and know that Heaven awaits us and know that hope will come true and good will triumph over evil and justice will right all of the wrongs?  Wouldn’t it be amazing, liberating, life-changing, to stand on the pinnacle of the temple and know there were sure-handed angels between you and the ground?  Wouldn’t it be amazing to have proof, to know? 

 

In the wilderness, Jesus passed every test, passed on every offer.  He was strong enough, even with his shaky, starving body, to withstand every temptation.  With faith, and no proof, he left the wilderness and journeyed in the direction of the terrible cross, trusting, but not knowing, that God would somehow make things OK.

 

These stories, these Jesus stories, are so familiar to us.  Every time we read through the Gospels, the same things always happen.  Jesus always resists the devil.  Jesus always ends up on the cross.  Jesus always gets an Easter ending.  And the stories are so familiar that it is easy to forget that Jesus didn’t know the stories; he lived the stories.  He did not face the cross with certainty; he faced the cross with faith.

 

Two years ago, we thought we knew how Lent would end: with a packed church, some festive brass instruments, and a perfectly chaotic Easter egg hunt.  But, if it ended, that is not how it ended.  Even the futures we think we know, don’t always come to pass. 

 

If there are angels waiting to catch us, we never get to see them.  We hope and hope that hope will come true.  We cast our lot with the good and trust that, someday, somehow, it will overcome evil.  We do the harrowing work of justice even when the opposing tide feels impossibly strong.  We follow Jesus believing, but never knowing, that there is Easter on the other side of the cross.

 

There are no guarantees in this vast wilderness.  The only option is to trust the one who bids us follow.