Desert Days [Lent 1A - Matthew 4:1-11]

The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Matthew 4:1-11

 

Desert Days

St. George’s, Clifton Park

 

The water was fine.  But the desert was calling.  There is no denying that the lush riverbank of the River Jordan was, in that moment, the place to be.  It was kinda like the first century version of Daytona Beach during Spring Break: alluring but overstimulating.  It’s a party but it can’t last forever.  Or so I’ve heard.  I mean, I spent my college spring breaks in Ohio eating cookies and playing video games.  So what do I know?

 

But the Gospel does tell us that those River Jordan crowds flocked from everywhere. “The people of Jerusalem, and all Judea” were there.  And all the people from the “region along the Jordan” were showing up.  There was something magnetic about that stretch of river.  Curiosity, skepticism, desperation, peer pressure, boredom, FOMO, sometimes even the Spirit: whatever the reason, that crowd was drawn to the river.  It was the place to be.

 

And unlike Daytona Beach on Spring Break, good things were happening there.  It was a tent revival without the tent.  And just like any good revival, Jesus showed up. 

 

The star of the show, the main attraction, was a rugged individual named John, called John the Baptist.  Living up to that moniker, John was waist-deep in the water, pushing the repentant under, by the time Jesus arrived on the scene. 

 

And when Jesus finally did appear, there is no denying that John was making a scene.  And it was captivating.  Not everyone in the crowd approved of his message, but they were listening regardless.  He was a sight to behold: ragged and wild, but also undeniably authentic.  Holy in an entirely unpolished way.  Somehow both soaking wet and dirty.  He was dunking and declaring, shouting and submerging.  He was hammering home some hard news, but the hard stuff sounded good.  It was Gospel. 

 

And nothing could stop him.  Except Jesus.  Jesus appeared like a sitcom record scratch.  The music stopped and the dove alighted and a voice from heaven silenced the buzzing masses.  In a moment, it went from a good party to miraculous.  They could have stayed there forever, together – built some tents on the bank.  But Jesus couldn’t stay. 

 

John’s message was powerful and important.  Repentance was taking root.  Lives were being changed.  Salvation was actually in demand.  The water was fine.  But the desert was calling.

 

Unlike the Jordan riverside, the desert was empty.  No buzzing crowds.  No skeptical religious authorities.  No plunged prophet.  The desert is a lonely place.  And that is really the point.

 

The desert is richly austere.  In a world in which everything is happening, the promise of no distractions can sound appealing.  But also, where there are no distractions, there are no distractions.  And people, being people, are addicted to distraction – the ping of yet another notification, the bluster of the news cycle, the inexhaustible task list.  Maybe it is a love/hate relationship.  But it is definitely a relationship – an important one. 

 

Jesus walked into that desert because it was a desert.  Jesus didn’t go into the desert to spend time with the devil; the devil took a long time to arrive – not until Jesus finished his forty days, according to the text.  Jesus went into the desert because this world is haunted with devils and plagued by demons.  Like our own, his earthly path was lined with temptation and paved with resistance, dotted with conflict and adorned with the casual allure of comfort.    

 

Because the devil accosted Jesus with a series of temptations there, we might be tempted to think of the desert as a bad place.  But the desert is not a bad place; it is a hard place.  And there is a difference.

 

Remember, it was the Spirit who led Jesus into the desert.  It was God who led the Exodus people into the desert.  It was Christ who called the ancient fathers and mothers into the desert.  There is a holiness in the solitude.  There is grace in the destitution.  There is God – even when we feel only emptiness.    

 

If we look closely, we see that the emptiness of the desert hones our focus – something that the powers of this world desperately seek to splinter.  If we listen closely, it is in the desert that we learn to hear the voice of God amidst a world of competing voices.  Away from the distractions and the noise, we can notice, and hear, and listen to, the still small voice of God.  Only in the place where there is nothing, can we come to understand that God provides all that we need.  It is where we develop a taste for manna.  It is where our addictions and distractions are exposed, perhaps even starved.

 

And that hurts.  Because detox is always a shock to the system.  It is hard to let go of those things that have burrowed into our souls and our lives.  Every person led into the desert is nostalgic, like the Exodus nation, for the leeks and cucumbers of Egypt.       

 

The water is fine.  The distractions serve their purpose.  The world is spinning and buzzing with an alluring, manufactured urgency.  And God, so out of sync with our unfettered bustle, is calling us to the stillness of the desert.  This season of Lent does nothing more or less than prepare us to live as Christians in this demanding world in these noisy times. 

 

We might be tempted to believe that if it’s quiet, it’s empty.  But Jesus shows us that the emptiness of the desert is actually a room God has prepared.  The desert isn't where God abandons us; it's where God finally gets us alone.

 

That is, before the Spirit calls once again.  Jesus was made ready in the river but didn’t stay.  And he was made ready in the desert, but Jesus didn’t stay in the desert forever either.  He went back into the buzz of a needy humanity – deeply grounded in God, fully prepared for the work of salvation.