First Sunday in Lent (C) | 17-Feb-13
Deuteronomy 26.1-11 | Romans 10.8b-13 | Luke 4.1-13
Once upon a time, there was a
painter. One day, he made a deal to
paint a woman’s house for $1,000. But
when he got started, and realized how much time and effort it was going to take
to paint the whole house, he decided that he needed to do something to increase
his profit on the job. And so, since the
woman didn’t really keep an eye on him when he painted, he began to mix the
paint with thinner. After all, he
figured, paint is expensive. And by
adding in thinner, he’d be able to make a can of paint go farther—thus lowering
his costs, and increasing his gain.
As he tabulated his earnings and the
amount of money he was saving, he kept adding in more and more thinner. By the time the house was finished, he was
quite proud of himself. He’d turned a
tidy little profit, and the woman would never know what he’d done. That is, until he was preparing to clean up
and put his ladders away—and it started raining. As it poured down, the paint—with all the
thinner in it—began to wash right off the woman’s house. The man stood there, in slack-jawed disbelief
of what he was seeing. Suddenly, the
rain stopped and the sun came out. And a
booming voice from the clouds said, “Repaint, and thin no more!”
Last Wednesday marked the beginning
of Lent, a roughly forty-day season (hearkening to Jesus’ forty days in the
wilderness) which is meant to be one of deep and careful introspection: of
deliberate spiritual preparation for the pinnacle of the Christian year that is
Easter. It’s typically a season of
somber tones, given to reminders of our mortality and our dependence upon God,
marked by signs and symbols like dust and thorns and penitent hues of
purple. Indeed it’s a season wherein
we’re called to repent, and to sin no more.
Similar to the messages we heard
during Advent, we’re beckoned during these forty days to call “on the name of
the Lord [and] be saved”[1]—an
invitation that’s open to “all”[2]
with “no distinction.”[3] What we sometimes miss, however, is what’s
meant by that word: what it means to be saved.
The Greek root term is sōzō,
meaning “to keep safe” or “to rescue.”
But it also carries connotations of being healed, being made well, and
being made whole. Thus to be saved goes
beyond something we usually relegate to the hereafter, and is a call to be
cleansed, to be renewed, and to be remade now:
to be changed, and because we’ve been changed, to live accordingly. It’s a call to holiness of heart and life, as
a response to God’s deliverance.[4]
This is part of why we hear so much
during the Lenten season about sin and turning from it. The problem, perhaps, is identifying
sin. What is it, really? I’ve heard it defined as “violating God’s
commands” or “missing the mark,” the latter indeed being a very literal
interpretation of the word. But from
where I stand, I’d define sin simply as this: loving too much that which isn’t
God. Sin, at its core and in the most
basic sense, is loving too much that which isn’t God.
Note that I didn’t say sin is loving that which isn’t God. We can certainly love persons and things
which aren’t God; God even tells us to.
We’re commanded by Christ to love other people: to love our neighbor, as
well as our enemy. Just a couple of
weeks ago, St. Paul reminded the Corinthian church (and us) of how important
love is. And on Valentine’s Day, which
just passed, we highlight love—don’t we?
And not just romantic love; we celebrate the love we have for our
spouses and for our significant others, but one can also find affectionate
gifts for parents, children, friends, and so on.
Rather, sin begins with loving too much that which isn’t God. It begins with assigning or ascribing worth which
should be given to God to something or someone else. And as creaturely beings, what do we tend to
love most? What do we typically love
above all else? Ourselves, of
course. I usually take care of me. I’m not hesitant to do kind things for me. I rarely deprive me. Oh, I get angry and frustrated with me. But at the end of the day, I’m still quick to
love me: quicker than I am to love most others.
Even the love of our possessions—of our stuff—emanates from an excess of
self-love, because that’s my
stuff. That belongs to me.
That’s mine.
Therefore if sin is loving too much
that which isn’t God, and what we tend to love most is ourselves, it follows
that the underlying cause of sin is selfishness: satiating our own desires,
satisfying our own hungers. Isn’t this
what the accuser threw at Jesus? When he
was led (literally, “brought”) into the wilderness by the Spirit, Jesus was
“tempted by the devil.”[5] St. Matthew’s version of the story is
somewhat less impactful; it reads as if Jesus fasted for forty days and then was beset by temptations. That’d be bad enough. But here, in St. Luke’s account, we read that
Jesus was tempted for the entirety of
the forty days. That makes a difference,
doesn’t it? Daily, Jesus endured the
internal whispering. Daily, he felt the
gnawing and discontent within. Daily, he
wondered if he’d gotten it wrong or if there was another way. Daily, he wrestled with uncertainty: “If you are the Son of God…”[6]
 |
| Christ in the Desert by Ivan Kramskoi (1867) |
And each temptation that the devil
offered was aimed at Jesus’ own fulfillment; each one was an attempt to cause
Jesus to focus on himself. And it
would’ve been easy for him to do so. I
must confess, I’ve always found a bit of humor in this narrative because the
evangelist writes: “He ate nothing at all [for forty] days, and when they were
over, he was famished.”[7] Really, you think so? I mean, after forty days in the desert, who wouldn’t feel hungry, weak, and
vulnerable? And knowing this, the enemy seizes
upon Jesus’ humanness—offering him food, prestige, and security. And Jesus turns each of them down, saying
that each in its own way distorts or contradicts God’s will.
Now I have to say that, on the
surface, none of that which Jesus is offered seems inherently wicked. I mean, he’s in a state of near-starvation
and is offered bread. Is that so
bad? Don’t we all require physical
sustenance? He’s also offered a place of
control and the promise of safety, two more things which human beings tend to
strive for. But given what he’d endured,
could we blame him if he’d accepted? Why
does he perceive these things as opposing the divine purpose? Why does he turn them away as sinful?
Again, because each was an attempt
to take Jesus’ attention away from God and away from his ministry. But even worse: each was an attempt to get
Jesus to place his attention instead on himself, in disproportionate ways. I think this is fairly obvious, considering
Jesus’ responses. With each temptation,
as the devil tries to persuade Jesus to do something or take something for
himself, Jesus points back toward God. One
doesn’t live by bread alone, but (as Matthew says) on God’s word. Worship and serve only God. Don’t put God to the test. And notice, Jesus doesn’t deny that he’s
hungry. He doesn’t say that the place of
prominence he’s offered sounds bad. He
doesn’t disagree that shelter from harm would be nice. He simply says that God comes first. Though there were things he needed—maybe even
wanted—God comes first. To put anything or
anyone else in that spot is sin.
Last week, several persons from
across the county gathered at Lynn Grove to observe the beginning of Lent with
Ash Wednesday. Prayers were offered,
recognizing God’s creative and redemptive work.
Scriptures were read which called us to humility, obedience, and repentance. And, as we knelt in silence at the altar
rail, a mixture of palm ashes and oil was smudged onto our foreheads in the
shape of a cross—reminding us of our finite existence, and of our need for a
Savior.
When we arrived home, I stepped into
the restroom—catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And in doing so, I noticed that my cross
wasn’t much of a cross at all. I don’t
know if I’d been sweating, or had furrowed my brow too much, but the horizontal
bar of the cross had faded until it was almost gone—such that what was on my
forehead looked less like a cross than it did a capital “I.”
But isn’t that what’s true? As we come to Christ, we’re marked as his
own—marked, as it were, with and by the cross.
And the apostle says that we’re made new in Christ, made new to the
point that it should be him that people see when they look at us. Our lives should embody that which the cross
makes present: forgiveness, reconciliation, and self-denying love. But, too often, that cross fades. Too often, that image of Christ which we’re
to show forth becomes barely visible—because “I” get in the way. I stand in the way of God’s call upon my
life, when I give undue attention to my hungers: to my wants and needs. I stand in the way when I know what’s right,
and keep adding thinner to the paint anyway.
I stand in the way when God doesn’t come first.
I wonder how many of us recognize
this in ourselves. I wonder how many of
us, wittingly or unwittingly, have let that cross fade. I wonder how many of us can admit that we too
frequently put “I” first, or that we too frequently allow that which isn’t God
to take God’s place in our hearts. Friends,
as we begin this Lenten journey together, I share with you the words of a
classic hymn which I believe encapsulate well the essence of the season:
Lord, who throughout these forty days
for us didst fast and pray,
teach us with thee to mourn our sins
and close by thee to stay.
As thou with Satan didst contend,
and didst the victory win,
O give us strength in thee to fight,
in thee to conquer sin.
As thou didst hunger bear, and thirst,
so teach us, gracious Lord,
to die to self, and chiefly live
by thy most holy word.
Abide with us, that so, this life
of suffering over past,
an Easter of unending joy
we may attain at last.[8]
May these words be
our guiding prayer, throughout these forty days and always.
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