Inauguration ceremonies are grand, theatrical, public events that give us
a window into a leader’s identity. Every aspect of the leader’s political
career is staged to reveal what she will stand for, what kind of change he
plans to effect, and the kind of political culture she wants to create. In the
secular political world we expect public figures to be ambitious, savvy, and
influential. We assume they now how to leverage their power and influence to
persuade and win over important constituents.
If they’re successful, they know how to make the most of every public
relations opportunity, and follow a predictably straight path right to the top.
Not only is this kind of ambition and strategy acceptable, but those who have
it are admired and lauded as the standard bearers of success.
So when Jesus was baptized by John
the Baptist in the Jordan River, the inauguration of his public ministry, he offered
those who witnessed it a window into his public identity. In grand fashion a
dove descended from heaven anointing him God’s beloved son. All the authority
of heaven was given to him, putting in motion nothing less than the inbreaking
of God’s Kingdom on earth. As public relations opportunities go, Jesus’ baptism
could not have been more poignant or more clear. Having been granted all
authority on heaven and earth, most who were present would fully expect a rapid
ascent to power and influence, a sudden explosive increase in his following,
and a divine demonstration of the miraculous the likes of which had never
before been witnessed. The path from the
waters of the Jordan seems like one that should be a straight ascent up to a
high mountain of power and influence.
But that is not where Jesus goes in today’s gospel. After his grand
inauguration, the Spirit leads him as far away from the seats of power and
influence as possible—straight into the wilderness. Jesus leaves behind the
path of ambitious upward mobility for the road less traveled. His path follows
a winding, treacherous way down into the wilderness. Down into utter solitude.
Down into painful hunger. Down into the most vulnerable, life-threatening
conditions imaginable. If he were a modern-day political figure we could easily
imagine his handlers throwing their hands up, shaking their heads, and warning
him against what they clearly know is a public relations nightmare. “They’re
all going to think you’re crazy, setting off on some sort of suicide mission,
starving yourself in the middle of nowhere!” we imagine his would-be handlers
advising.
Most of us can probably much more
readily relate to those baffled by Jesus’ journey into the wilderness. We are
raised with clear messages about what success looks like—messages much more
aptly characterized by Dale Carnegie’s How
to Make Friends and Influence People
than by Into the Wild. We are
taught to put our nose to the grindstone. To learn how to play the political
game if we want to gain enough power and influence to really change things for
the better. We quickly learn that if we want to change the world, we have to be
realistic enough to use the ways of the world to our advantage. So as we hear
the temptations of Jesus in the wilderness, I think, if we’re honest, the devil
makes a lot more good sense than Jesus. It’s only common sense. If you are
starving to death, how bad can it be to use the miraculous power at your
disposal to create food to eat. If you want to change the world for the better,
why not give up a little integrity for the sake of ruling all the kingdoms of
the earth instantly, in just the way you know they should be ruled? If you want
people to trust that you really are who you say you are, why not demonstrate it
clearly, publicly, and boldly so that
there will be no question? Then you can more quickly get on with the work you
were put here to do! These are called temptations, not because they are
obviously reprehensible, but rather because they cut to the very heart of our
human nature. We are hard-wired to avoid suffering—to take the path of least
resistance. Sometimes that path comes in the guise of productivity, efficiency
and resourcefulness.
But here, in the wilderness, Jesus
gives us a glimpse of God’s true identity. Jesus isn’t avoiding proclaiming
what God’s Kingdom stands for by subjecting himself to hunger. By his fast he
leads us down into the heart of God’s own solidarity with those who go hungry
every day. Jesus isn’t avoiding his call to bring in God’s kingdom by refusing
to command people’s allegiance. Rather, with each step down into the
wilderness, he demonstrates what true power really is—the courage to trust and
obey God, even in the face of overwhelming odds. Jesus isn’t shrinking away
from his true identity when he refuses to leap from the temple and be saved by God’s
angels. Instead, by submitting to life-threatening conditions, he embodies the message
at heart of the Resurrection—that even death has no power to separate us from
God’s presence.
What Jesus meets with in the
wilderness, and what we are asked to confront as we wander there with him, is
the temptation to opt for the shortcuts, the quick-fixes, and easy ways out of
the wilderness places of our lives. Today’s gospel asks us to question the
prevailing wisdom that would convince us that pain, uncertainty, and suffering
should be avoided because it doesn’t feel like God is there. When we find
ourselves in the wilderness places of our lives, everything in us is tempted to
distract ourselves, busy ourselves, and medicate ourselves out of it, because
we worry that such places make us weak, vulnerable, and dependent. But the
spirit of God invites us into the wilderness with Jesus for a reason. While the
world might try to convince us that dependence and vulnerability make us weak,
God, in Christ, proclaims that it is in our vulnerability that God walks with
us and connects us with others. When we depend on others and on God, there God’s
spirit makes a home, and finds greatest expression.
My daughter and I were part of a group
that made comfort quilts for cancer patients. At our first meeting, where we
were told the story of the person for whom we are making our quilt, we learned
that our recipient was a 37 year old woman who was just diagnosed with stage 4
ovarian cancer. She had 3 young children. When the woman organizing our
quilting group assured the nurses that we would have the quilt finished in time
for Easter, the nurses faces fell. They admitted that they were not sure she
would survive that long. We all listened in the deep sadness of knowing that
she may not be there to celebrate the resurrection. This young mother, wife,
sister and daughter is journeying into a wilderness beyond what many of us can
imagine. It feels much easier to imagine the Kingdom of God in glowing sunsets
that melt behind the horizon, in ornate cathedrals, in the inspiring speeches
of charismatic leaders, and in the majestic harmonies of a soaring choral
performances. It feels much more difficult to find the resurrection power of
God in the wilderness places of pain, suffering, and weakness.
But I think God’s Kingdom comes
more often as a hand-sewn patchwork quilt than in the ornate architecture of
the world’s seats of power and influence. Our lives are made up of strips of
experiences, frayed around the edges, and in need of connection. God’s Kingdom,
God’s steadfast presence, is the thread that binds our lives together in
community. We are not called to avoid the wilderness places, or to hide the
frayed edges of our lives from one another. God calls us to enter each other’s
wildernesses bearing the thread of God’s presence, that we might allow God to sew
our lives together stitch by stitch. When sit with someone who is lonely, we
stitch our story into God’s story. When we offer a ride to someone who needs
it, we sew another stitch. When we sit and listen to someone share their
sadness and grief at the loss of their loved one, another stitch. When we use
our voice to call attention to the struggle of someone who has no voice,
another stitch. Small stitch after small stitch, God faithfully sews our frayed
edges into a beautiful tapestry, a comforting quilt. Hear the Rev. Roddy
Hamilton’s beautiful invitation:
“When the world is no longer a paradise and creation shows its full
power over us still and we are brought down to size on this small planet of
ours, we worship.
When the memories linger of the past and war shapes us beyond our
knowing and conflict becomes a story of life, we worship.
When the way is more barren than beautiful, when the path is more a climb
than a stroll, when the desert expands and the horizon stretches, we worship.
We worship because we can. We worship because we hope. We worship
because we know our vulnerability when things shift and we need to hold on.
We worship because it is the only strength we have for the journey.”
Welcome to Lent. Enter the wilderness. Enter God’s Kingdom.
Come and let God stitch the pieces of your life together in community. Come and
worship.
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