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From February 25, 2007 "Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit in the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted..." The land was colorless mostly, bleak and barren, foreboding. And it seemed to go on forever. Each peak Jesus climbed inevitably gave way to one more lonesome valley. Down he would trek and then up the other side, hoping that the next rise would be the one that led on to green, to shade, to water. It didn't. The Spirit's prompting at the Jordan had been urgent. And spare. "Go! Now!" Jesus knew exactly what this meant. That he had no time for detours. No time to circle back to Nazareth for a change of clothes and some salted fish. No time to grab goatskin of water or a small pillow. There was not even time for goodbyes. "Go! Now!" And so Jesus obeyed. He kept going until the Spirit said "Here!" Jesus' wilderness trek ended at a wadi, a wash, a narrow gouge in the earth. As he walked its length, off to one side he spied a little ledge carved out by desert winds and the occasional flash of flood. Jesus quickly recognized the wadi's gift. The ledge was the perfect place to sleep. And the overhang above would provide a sliver of shade right when Jesus would need it most. If he sat on that ledge and pulled his legs up close to his body just so and drew his arms around his legs, he could avoid being scorched by the relentless midday sun. There he watched and waited, listened and learned. With no resources but inner ones, Jesus found himself more vulnerable than he ever imagined a man could be. Just as wind and water had done to the surrounding landscape, this time alone was having an effect on Jesus. Temptations arose. And hard. But Jesus held fast to what he had: the truth. The truth inside him that had him see that everything except God was just too small, too fickle to rely upon - even the things that seemed most tempting. * * * * * * * * * * A number of years ago on a trip through South Dakota, I found myself overnighting in the heart of the Cheyenne River Reservation where the Lakota Sioux live. My group arrived just as the sun was setting. We hurried to set up camp. Out came our thick sleeping bags and our coolers of food. Out came all the things we thought we couldn't live without during our three-week trek across the Plains and back again. Working in teams, some began to prepare dinner while others went to work putting up our shelter. It began to rain, light at first, and then steadily. Our cook fire sputtered and died. Our clothes began to get wet. Tiny rivers began to creep under the shelter's edge and toward our sleeping bags and dry belongings. Our leader quickly called us into a huddle. Should we stay and tough it out or should we go? If the answer was go, it wouldn't be as easy as jumping back into the van, Carl warned us. The road had been muddy on the way in; by now it would be too boggy to drive out. We would have to stuff whatever we needed into garbage bags and carry our things the mile or so to the humble Lakota church on the hill above our camp site. One or two in our group tried to make a case for toughing it out, but the lure of safe shelter was too much for us. The promise of comfort too tempting. The assurance of a clean, well lit kitchen too appealing. The only thing on our minds was sparing ourselves a hard night. In a little more than an hour we had slogged through wet prairie grass and were at the church doorstep thanking the pastor, Richard Charging Eagle, for his hospitality. We were doubly grateful for our safe haven; the temperature had dropped significantly at sunset and the rain had started falling harder. After we dried off, Richard gathered us together for words of welcome. And then, so that we might understand something greater than our immediate hardship, Richard told us what we did not know: that just that afternoon a half-dozen men had hiked up into the mountains on the other side of our abandoned campsite. This was no ordinary outing. It was a time of vision questing. Up on the mountain, each man would seek out an isolated spot and stay there for four nights without food or water or comforts of any kind. Confronting the elements, they would inevitably confront themselves, Richard said. All any of them would have to rely on would be a year's worth of getting-ready prayers, a heart hungering for a vision, and WakanTanka, the Great Mystery who would provide that vision. * * * * * * * * * * The church hasn't always celebrated Lent. Way back when, back when the church was still very young just being a Christian was test enough, what with the persecutions and executions and all. No, Lent began after Christianity grew up some, after it became the faith of the empire, after people had cozied up it and domesticated it, after being a Christian was the comfortable choice and you couldn't really tell anymore who the Christian was and who was just going along for the ride. That's when the church sensed the need to call people into a wilderness time, into forty days of stripped down living, so that we might begin to learn who we are as people of God and followers of Christ. Just as Jesus was called into the wilderness to encounter the full scope of his humanity and test the full extent of his reliance on God, so with us each Lent. Lent is our journey into the wilderness. It is our time alone, where we can learn a little bit more about where in our lives, how in our lives, why in our lives, when in our lives, and with what in our lives we are tempted to rely on something smaller than God. Which is why, as opposed to Advent season (the weeks leading up to Christmas), Lent is a hard, hard sell. No parishioner I've ever served, met, or heard about has ever rushed up the aisle a month after Christmas, turned to the congregation and with jubilation and joy shouted, "Hey everybody, Epiphany's about over! That means Lent is coming! Lent is coming!" No, Lent is largely the season we are inclined to resist. Because it sounds like Outward Bound for the soul. It sounds like forty full days of deprivation and discipline and self-denial. And that's hard, treacherous going even if you never leave the house. So what are we tempted to do? To "sorta Lent." Like Kathy Standeford's father did back when I was in grade school. Every year just before Lent, Kathy's dad would proudly announce he was giving up rhubarb pie for Lent. Which might have been an admirable sacrifice except for one thing: he hated rhubarb pie. The point of Lent isn't to give something up. Or even to take something on. Lent is our season of self-observation and contemplation, so that like Jesus, like those Lakota men on the mountain, we can begin to notice what we're often too busy and distracted to see: that we comfort and cushion ourselves with habits and strategies that take the place of reliance on God. Boiled down to their essence, each of Jesus' temptations was something that would have taken God out of the picture or at least pushed God into the background. That's what's behind every temptation: we think something or someone can fill the place in our lives that only God can. How can you and I know what that is unless we listen? Unless we keep company with ourselves? How can God be everything to us unless we carve out a space in our lives to notice how it is, where it is, when it is, where it is, why it is that we're tempted to rely on something, anything, smaller than God? Amen. © Rev. Karen Winkel I am indebted to Barbara Brown Taylor for her sermon "Lenten Discipline" found in Home By Another Way. Some of her words have inspired some of mine. |
"Never place a period where God has placed a comma." - Gracie Allen
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