Tried and Tested (2.17.13)

TRIED AND TESTED

A Meditation on Luke 4:1-13

For the First Sunday in Lent

1.

There’s a song I like by Canadian Bruce Cockburn, a relentless lyric really that calls to mind so many of the ways we’re tempted along the way.  In a sense, the more beauty you see, the more temptation you face.  The more faith you have, the more temptation you engage.  It’s a strange thing.  But Bruce Cockburn gets at it a little with this song—which he calls “TRIED AND TESTED.”  I can’t get the poetry just as he does.  But I do want to share it with you this morning.  It moves me.

It goes like this:

By the cries of birds
By the lies I've heard
By my own loose talk
By the way I walk
By the claws of beasts
By the laws of priests
By the glutton's feast
By the word police
Tried and tested

Tried and tested

By the planet's arc
By the falling dark
By the state of the art
By the beat of my heart
By dark finance
By the marketing dance
By the poverty trance
By the fateful glance

Tried and tested
Tried and tested

By the pressure to rhyme
By the wages of crime
By the drop of a dime
By the ghost of the times
By the spurs of desire
By "What does love require"
By what I waited for
By what showed up at the door

Tried and tested
Tried and tested

By the nation wide
By the tears I've cried
By the lure of false pride
By the need to take sides
By the weight of choice
By the still small voice
By the things I forget
By what I haven't met yet

Tried and tested
Tried and tested

It’s quite a provocative piece, really.  Just that last stanza alone.  Did you catch all that?

By the nation wide
By the tears I've cried
By the lure of false pride
By the need to take sides
By the weight of choice
By the still small voice
By the things I forget
By what I haven't met yet

Tried and tested
Tried and tested

To be human then, to be passionate, to be faithful—is to be tested, tempted along the way.  And if you haven’t experienced SOME temptation lately, we might reasonably conclude this morning (without judgment, of course) that you’re just not getting out enough.  Because from beginning to end, biblical tradition is pretty clear that temptation comes with the territory—hand in hand with faith itself.  You believe in something larger, something bigger than yourself—and (in no time) you’re tempted to compromise, tempted to play small, lower your expectations.  You believe in One whose ways are holy, whose instructions are good—and (in no time) you’re tempted to want everybody else to live by the same lights, play by the same rules.  You see what I mean?  Temptation comes with the territory—hand in hand with faith itself.  Who knows why—but we’re made that way.

And I’m NOT talking about an extra M & M on Valentine’s Day; I’m NOT talking about a little itty bitty cuss word when you stub your toe or the dog poops on the carpet.  I’m talking about temptation: those juicy temptations, those moral conundrums, those thorny and ever so consequential tests of character and spirit.  You know the ones.  I’m talking about dumping a gallon of paint down the drain (because it’s easy) when you know it’ll end up in the river and it’d be better to turn it in at the recycling center.  I’m talking about driving your family home after a great night out, even though you’ve had too much to drink and you know it’s probably not the best thing for anybody out there.  I’m talking about pulling somebody else’s sermon off the internet—because it’s Saturday night and you just didn’t have time and, besides, she said it better than you could anyways.  Consequential testing of character and spirit.

2.

This morning’s text, this wild little tale about Jesus famished and the devil emboldened in the wilderness: it’s a reminder and a promise.  No matter how full of Spirit we are…no matter how holy are intentions are...no matter how disciplined our practices are.  We will be tempted.  We will meet our devils out there in the wilderness, or maybe in HERE in this wilderness, and probably more than once.  I wish we could tell Cristina and Clayton that it’ll never happen to Andrew, that he’s somehow, now, exempt.  But we know I’d be lying.  Andrew will be tempted, too.  Out in who knows what kind of wilderness.  He’ll be tempted.  And probably more than once.  We haven’t promised to protect him from temptation, so much as we’ve promised to share the wisdom of our experience, the courage we’ve found on the way, the hard-earned consequences of our own struggles.  And Andrew will be the better, so much the better, for all that.  You can count on it.

So what about these three then, Luke’s three temptations?  What do they say to us about the tests we all face, the tension we all experience along the Way?  And how might Lent be an invitation to wrestle with temptation, to grapple with conundrums in new ways?

There are all kinds of ways to go at these three temptations, of course.  In a sense, the first might be the temptation of the ‘prosperity gospel’: the temptation to act as if faith entitles us to all kinds of wealth and privilege and freedom from want.  We could say a lot about that one.  The prosperity gospel.  We’re tried and tested.

And the second, this one might be the temptation of Christian imperialism: the temptation to act as if Jesus anoints us as arbiters of universal morality, rule-makers for the whole world, no matter the cultural, religious, ethnic, economic differences among us.  And while Pope Benedict and Justice Scalia represent this temptation most colorfully, that’s not to say it doesn’t live inside you and me, too.  If only the world knew what I know...  If only they’d see things my way...   Faith can intoxicate the human ego.  Yours and mine.  We’re tried and tested.

But it’s that third temptation, Luke’s third, that intrigues me most today, this temptation where the devil takes Jesus to the pinnacle of the temple, sets him up there, and dares him to just leap.  Just leap.  After all, says the devil (and let’s note that this is a bible-quoting, psalm-slinging devil).  After all, the bible DOES say that those whom God loves will always be protected, never know any harm; that they’ll be lifted on the wings of angels and delivered from any suffering.  So go ahead, Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit.  Just leap.  What could ever go wrong?

Now here’s what I see Luke doing with this text.  And it’s a text that he and Matthew have inherited from Mark, and then amplified to address their own communities in new ways.  I see Luke—this marvelous storyteller—sending Jesus (right off the bat) to the most precarious, dangerous, vulnerable place possible: the pinnacle of the temple in Jerusalem.  And the temptation Jesus meets there is the temptation to retreat to a safer place, to a safer time, to a safer gospel.  It’s the temptation to back off a risky, vulnerable path and choose a safer, sweeter one.  Luke sends Jesus to this scary place—so Jesus has to wrestle with his fears, his insecurities, and with the consequences of everything else he’s about to do.  I don’t know about the rest of you, but that’s a place I’ve been a whole bunch of times.  Vulnerability is overrated.  Too much risk makes my stomach ache.  So the temptation’s to back off a risky, vulnerable path—for a safer, sweeter one.  We’re tried and tested.  Tried and tested.

And let’s not miss Luke’s symbolism here.  It’s potent.  Jerusalem’s not just any city, obviously.  Luke knows it’s the city where prophets risk everything for justice and peace.  Luke knows it’s the city where the Romans intimidate and crush and destroy resistance whenever they feel like it.  And Luke knows that Jerusalem’s the city where Jesus is nailed to a cross eventually, brutally executed as an example to every other prophet, every other visionary, every other God-lover in the land.   The devil faces off with Jesus in Jerusalem.  Not just any city: but THAT city, that place where Jesus has every reason to feel vulnerable and anxious, that place where he is most at risk, most on edge, and most fragile.

3.

Now you don’t have to be on some holy pinnacle in Jerusalem or in some battleground in Damascus or Benghazi—to know what Jesus is up against in this morning’s story.  Jesus is afraid.  Jesus is intimidated.  Jesus is vulnerable and anxious and not at all sure of himself and whether he’s got what it takes.  Does this sound familiar?  To any of us?

You find yourself at that fork in the road where you’ve got to tell the truth.  That dangerous place where the truth means pissing people off and risking your reputation and maybe more.  And you’re afraid.  And you’re anxious.  And it would be so much easier, and so much wiser just to blend in.  Make no waves.  Ruffle no feathers.

Or you find yourself perched on the edge of a new life, a choice that leads in an entirely new direction.  Maybe it’s a new vocation, a new career.  Maybe it’s a new relationship, a new love.  And it’s scary as hell.  And you’re vulnerable beyond belief.  Nobody in your family, nobody you know has ever done such a crazy, dreamy, wild thing.  And it would be so much easier, and so much wiser just to retrace your steps, go back to what you know, do the acceptable thing.

But here’s the thing.  Jesus doesn’t back down.  And he doesn’t jump off.  And he doesn’t buy the devil’s pitch.  Yes, he’s afraid.  Yes, Jesus’s intimidated.  Yes, he’s vulnerable and anxious and not at all sure of himself.  Just like you and me.  But Jesus keeps his eye on the prize.  He learns to live with vulnerability and uncertainty and ambiguity.  And he refuses to blend in, to retrace his steps, to settle for the acceptable thing.

And whatever that hard thing is that you’re doing this Lent, whatever fear you’ve encountered along the way, whatever crazy pinnacle you’re on—I hope you’ll take a good measure of courage from Jesus’ example right here.  The Holy Spirit in him is the Holy Spirit in you.  Life’s going to challenge you.  The way forward will stretch you, maybe to the point of snapping.  And the gospel—even the gospel of love—will test your resolve and your patience and your courage.  It just happens that way.  For every one of us.  For Jesus and every last one of us.

So remember out there: that you are not alone.  The hard thing you’re doing is the same hard thing God does with you.  The scary road you’re taking toward wholeness and peace?  That’s the scary road God walks with you, by your side, always by your side.  Whether you’re learning to pray for the first time, or working the twelve steps for the ninth time, or discovering new ways to love or new ways to parent or new ways to care for your own sweet self—you are not and will never, ever be alone.  Tried and tested, YES.  Tempted by all kinds of devils and sweet-talking temptations, YES.  But you are not and will never, ever be alone.

Amen.