First Sunday in Lent
Alice M.C. Ling, Senior Pastor
Matthew 4:1-11
The guy has a point, you know. Not that I’d ever go so far as to call Jesus a loser, but you have to admit that he doesn’t play by the rules most of us do. Rules, assumptions, norms, understanding of how the world works. Whatever you want to call it, he walks to the beat of a different drummer, that’s for sure. Can you tell me, please, why someone who hasn’t eaten for forty days would refuse to produce bread in whatever way he could? I assure you that it didn’t take any superhuman mind reading ability to perceive that after 40 days of fasting he was famished. What I don’t understand is why he wouldn’t succumb to a little something to snack on when it was offered, especially a nice warm loaf of bread. I don’t know how I ever got hooked up with this Jesus guy if he can say no to bread.
Then again, if I’m willing to stop and think about it for a few minutes – and if I’m willing to let you in on my inner workings when it comes to food, I just might be able to catch a glimpse of what the man was dealing with. I have to admit that my relationship with food operates on some kind of continuum. Near one end, there’s a place I visit far more often than I want to admit, I see food and it looks good, so I say yes. I’m offered food and I want to be polite, so I say yes. On my worst days, it really doesn’t matter when I last ate or what I last ate. If it strikes me as appealing, I smile and say thank you. When I was on vacation a couple of weeks ago, I had a mid-afternoon meal, deciding that that would be it for the day. I rehearsed what I had in the room that I could eat if I got hungry (some of it was even healthy), and decided to head back and tuck myself in for the night. But when the owner of the B&B recommended a place just down the road, and I knew this was my last chance to check it out, I headed back into the night. To my credit, I did waffle awhile before I went, and I only had a salad. But still, I didn’t need to be there at all.
There’s another place where I spend far more of my time, and that’s a place where I ponder and debate what I eat. We go out for lunch and I think about what we’re having for supper and how this choice will work alongside that. I think about the desserts I’ve eaten recently and the leftovers we have at home, and encourage all of that to add wisdom and restraint to the choice I make here and now. Sometimes it does; too often it doesn’t. Too often, I give in again and say, yeah, I should say no, but I’m not going to. This is what I want, and this is what I’m going to have. I’ll be good tonight. Or if not then, we’ll shoot for tomorrow.
But on my good days, on my strong and clear and focused days, I’m much more clear headed and able to say, no. Yes, those fries would taste good, but broccoli is better for me. I know that Janie’s apple cranberry pie is out of this world, but I don’t need it. I can have it another day. I know there’s still pizza in that box, but I don’t need another piece. For today, I’ll be better off if I stop here. I’ve had enough. I like the way I feel this way better than when I’m overstuffed, pumped up with sugar or overflowing with caffeine. I need to know when I need something and when I really don’t need another thing at all. I’m done.
What we eat is about far more than what we need to nourish and sustain our bodies. Whether we’re stuffing or starving ourselves, there’s a whole lot more going on than the food that is or is not going in to our bodies. Often it’s about deeper hungers and hurts, about restlessness and emptiness, about comfort and consolation and covering up some kind of hole that we neither want to glimpse nor reveal. So we bury it under food. Or clothes, computer games, alcohol, books, staying fit, accumulating a larger bank account or more houses or nicer cars. We don’t ever want to feel those feelings again, go through that humiliation again, admit that weakness again, catch a second glimpse of that hurt again, so we bury it, feed it, hide it, cover it and try our very best to run away from it.
In an amazing way, Jesus was saying, I could feed the hunger in my stomach right now, but even if I did, it wouldn’t feed my real and deepest hunger – and that’s for God and God alone. I’m not willing to let food take on an ultimate kind of importance in my life, or drive a wedge between myself and God. It’s not that he wasn’t into food – he was later accused of being a drunkard and a glutton because he and his friends had so much fun at the table. He did several miracles to feed thousands of people. But here, where the rubber hit the road, he knew that what mattered most to him was not visible or edible, tangible or collectible, bankable or investable. What mattered most was the word and love of God, and he wasn’t willing to do, say or eat anything that would move God out of first place.
When Jesus told his tempter that he would feed on the word of God rather than turn stones to bread, Satan picked up on that language and asked Jesus just how much he was willing to trust the word of God. In the Psalms, God said that if you fall, the angels will bear you up and carry you safely to the ground, so show me if you trust it. Climb up to the very tip top of this steeple and throw yourself over the edge. If you trust God enough, you’ll do it, and then you’ll have proof positive for yourself and for the skeptics you’re bound to meet along the way. To which Jesus calmly said, I trust God enough that I don’t need to test God. I know that when I need God, God will be there. But I don’t expect God to stand in the wings waiting for my beck and call, offering me a morsel of reassurance when and if I get a little anxious. In fact, more than likely I will get anxious, but God’s faithfulness doesn’t need an annual inspection to make sure that it’s still functioning as promised.
At which point, Satan moved on to the third temptation: the promise of ruling all the kingdoms of the world. In order to make this come true, all Jesus had to do was bow down in an act of false worship. Bow before me, and in the snap of your fingers, it can all be yours. I don’t know how much Jesus understood at that point of where his ministry was going to take him, but you have to wonder if he knew then what he came to know later, if he would have changed his answer. Clearly, he had come to establish a kingdom which would govern people’s lives. And to think, it all could have been his in the twinkling of an eye. Why not skip over all that unpleasantness of tauntings and trials, of scourging and ridiculing, or a cross and nails. It’s the end point that matters, right? Does it really matter how you get there as long as you get there? It’s a question that each of us has to answer from time to time, but for Jesus, the answer was clear and unquestioning. Yes, the way you get there matters every bit as much as where you get to. He was not willing to worship any one or anything other than God, regardless of how much easier it made the road. He wouldn’t try to soften the cost of discipleship if it meant turning away from God.
The people of Israel wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, and during that time, they were faced with temptations about hunger, about putting God to the test and about false worship. And in each case, they failed their faith and their God miserably. Jesus began his ministry with 40 days in the wilderness and faced precisely the same temptations. This time, where the Israelites had stumbled, Jesus walked steadfast and sure. And we have and we do face the same temptations: questions of what we will use to touch and fill the hunger that lies deep within each of us, how much evidence and proof we want before we can trust, and how able and willing we are to walk the road in front of us, and whether we’ll try to short circuit the path in order to make it smoother and easier.
Jesus didn’t play by our rules and still refuses to live by our standards. One of the questions before us this Lent is whether we will be willing to listen to his wisdom and learn from his faith in order to live by his standards and walk in his path.
Download this sermon (PDF)
Matthew 4:1-11
The guy has a point, you know. Not that I’d ever go so far as to call Jesus a loser, but you have to admit that he doesn’t play by the rules most of us do. Rules, assumptions, norms, understanding of how the world works. Whatever you want to call it, he walks to the beat of a different drummer, that’s for sure. Can you tell me, please, why someone who hasn’t eaten for forty days would refuse to produce bread in whatever way he could? I assure you that it didn’t take any superhuman mind reading ability to perceive that after 40 days of fasting he was famished. What I don’t understand is why he wouldn’t succumb to a little something to snack on when it was offered, especially a nice warm loaf of bread. I don’t know how I ever got hooked up with this Jesus guy if he can say no to bread.
Then again, if I’m willing to stop and think about it for a few minutes – and if I’m willing to let you in on my inner workings when it comes to food, I just might be able to catch a glimpse of what the man was dealing with. I have to admit that my relationship with food operates on some kind of continuum. Near one end, there’s a place I visit far more often than I want to admit, I see food and it looks good, so I say yes. I’m offered food and I want to be polite, so I say yes. On my worst days, it really doesn’t matter when I last ate or what I last ate. If it strikes me as appealing, I smile and say thank you. When I was on vacation a couple of weeks ago, I had a mid-afternoon meal, deciding that that would be it for the day. I rehearsed what I had in the room that I could eat if I got hungry (some of it was even healthy), and decided to head back and tuck myself in for the night. But when the owner of the B&B recommended a place just down the road, and I knew this was my last chance to check it out, I headed back into the night. To my credit, I did waffle awhile before I went, and I only had a salad. But still, I didn’t need to be there at all.
There’s another place where I spend far more of my time, and that’s a place where I ponder and debate what I eat. We go out for lunch and I think about what we’re having for supper and how this choice will work alongside that. I think about the desserts I’ve eaten recently and the leftovers we have at home, and encourage all of that to add wisdom and restraint to the choice I make here and now. Sometimes it does; too often it doesn’t. Too often, I give in again and say, yeah, I should say no, but I’m not going to. This is what I want, and this is what I’m going to have. I’ll be good tonight. Or if not then, we’ll shoot for tomorrow.
But on my good days, on my strong and clear and focused days, I’m much more clear headed and able to say, no. Yes, those fries would taste good, but broccoli is better for me. I know that Janie’s apple cranberry pie is out of this world, but I don’t need it. I can have it another day. I know there’s still pizza in that box, but I don’t need another piece. For today, I’ll be better off if I stop here. I’ve had enough. I like the way I feel this way better than when I’m overstuffed, pumped up with sugar or overflowing with caffeine. I need to know when I need something and when I really don’t need another thing at all. I’m done.
What we eat is about far more than what we need to nourish and sustain our bodies. Whether we’re stuffing or starving ourselves, there’s a whole lot more going on than the food that is or is not going in to our bodies. Often it’s about deeper hungers and hurts, about restlessness and emptiness, about comfort and consolation and covering up some kind of hole that we neither want to glimpse nor reveal. So we bury it under food. Or clothes, computer games, alcohol, books, staying fit, accumulating a larger bank account or more houses or nicer cars. We don’t ever want to feel those feelings again, go through that humiliation again, admit that weakness again, catch a second glimpse of that hurt again, so we bury it, feed it, hide it, cover it and try our very best to run away from it.
In an amazing way, Jesus was saying, I could feed the hunger in my stomach right now, but even if I did, it wouldn’t feed my real and deepest hunger – and that’s for God and God alone. I’m not willing to let food take on an ultimate kind of importance in my life, or drive a wedge between myself and God. It’s not that he wasn’t into food – he was later accused of being a drunkard and a glutton because he and his friends had so much fun at the table. He did several miracles to feed thousands of people. But here, where the rubber hit the road, he knew that what mattered most to him was not visible or edible, tangible or collectible, bankable or investable. What mattered most was the word and love of God, and he wasn’t willing to do, say or eat anything that would move God out of first place.
When Jesus told his tempter that he would feed on the word of God rather than turn stones to bread, Satan picked up on that language and asked Jesus just how much he was willing to trust the word of God. In the Psalms, God said that if you fall, the angels will bear you up and carry you safely to the ground, so show me if you trust it. Climb up to the very tip top of this steeple and throw yourself over the edge. If you trust God enough, you’ll do it, and then you’ll have proof positive for yourself and for the skeptics you’re bound to meet along the way. To which Jesus calmly said, I trust God enough that I don’t need to test God. I know that when I need God, God will be there. But I don’t expect God to stand in the wings waiting for my beck and call, offering me a morsel of reassurance when and if I get a little anxious. In fact, more than likely I will get anxious, but God’s faithfulness doesn’t need an annual inspection to make sure that it’s still functioning as promised.
At which point, Satan moved on to the third temptation: the promise of ruling all the kingdoms of the world. In order to make this come true, all Jesus had to do was bow down in an act of false worship. Bow before me, and in the snap of your fingers, it can all be yours. I don’t know how much Jesus understood at that point of where his ministry was going to take him, but you have to wonder if he knew then what he came to know later, if he would have changed his answer. Clearly, he had come to establish a kingdom which would govern people’s lives. And to think, it all could have been his in the twinkling of an eye. Why not skip over all that unpleasantness of tauntings and trials, of scourging and ridiculing, or a cross and nails. It’s the end point that matters, right? Does it really matter how you get there as long as you get there? It’s a question that each of us has to answer from time to time, but for Jesus, the answer was clear and unquestioning. Yes, the way you get there matters every bit as much as where you get to. He was not willing to worship any one or anything other than God, regardless of how much easier it made the road. He wouldn’t try to soften the cost of discipleship if it meant turning away from God.
The people of Israel wandered in the wilderness for 40 years, and during that time, they were faced with temptations about hunger, about putting God to the test and about false worship. And in each case, they failed their faith and their God miserably. Jesus began his ministry with 40 days in the wilderness and faced precisely the same temptations. This time, where the Israelites had stumbled, Jesus walked steadfast and sure. And we have and we do face the same temptations: questions of what we will use to touch and fill the hunger that lies deep within each of us, how much evidence and proof we want before we can trust, and how able and willing we are to walk the road in front of us, and whether we’ll try to short circuit the path in order to make it smoother and easier.
Jesus didn’t play by our rules and still refuses to live by our standards. One of the questions before us this Lent is whether we will be willing to listen to his wisdom and learn from his faith in order to live by his standards and walk in his path.
Download this sermon (PDF)
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