For many years, the most popular humanities course
at Duke University was a small group seminar in
the English Department taught by the late Southern
novelist Reynolds Price. The course was simply titled
The Gospels. After studying the Gospels of Mark and
John, which Price described as “documents largely
unprecedented in world literature,” students were
asked to begin the one assignment the syllabus
required: an original gospel of 30-50 pages, based
on the readings and discussion of the seminar. Now
this class was in the English Department, not the
Religion Department, and so we would be graded on
the quality of our story, how compelling a narrative we
could construct. Two decades later, I still remember
it as the most challenging assignment I’ve ever been
given. Now, admittedly, some of that was length—I’d
never written anything close to fifty pages before on
anything. But the content was my deeper concern.
How do you write an original gospel? How do you
summarize the life of Jesus in your own words?
This difficult assignment was precisely what faced
the man we call Mark as he sat down to record his
story of the life of Jesus, quite possibly the first person
in history to do so. He began without precedent or
guide, simply convinced that the story must be told.
Mark’s story is succinct; his pace is brisk. No
miraculous birth in Bethlehem. No detailed
description of Jesus’ family tree. At the outset of the
story, readers are cast into the wilderness where a
strange-looking figure appears. Mark calls him John
the baptizer. He is preaching, preaching repentance.
He is demanding, demanding change. He is offering,
offering forgiveness and a fresh start. Just as this
prophet John predicts the coming of the Messiah,
immediately Jesus arrives on the scene. At this point,
Mark proceeds at an almost breathless pace. He
barely pauses to describe characters or setting, so
focused is he on the plot itself, so compelled to tell the
good news, the gospel story.
Jesus wades into the Jordan River. The scene is
stuffed with symbolism. Jesus is baptized by John. The
heavens are ripped apart. The Spirit descends like a
dove. A voice from the sky declares, “You are my Son,
the Beloved.”
Now just imagine how Jesus might have seized the
moment to start a movement. Afterall, the heavens
were torn apart. A spirit descending. A divine voice
booming. It’s the perfect launch party for a global
tour. Jesus could have built a brand, become an
influencer, consolidated his power. It would have
been a good story, a compelling narrative for an
original gospel. But it’s not the one Mark tells. Not by
a long shot. Here is what happens instead. The same
Spirit who descended at the baptism drives Jesus out
into the wilderness, where he will spend forty days,
his only company wild beasts and angels, face to face
with temptation.
The ministry of Jesus begins not on stage, but in the
wilderness. The wilderness. A setting of trial, risk, and
danger. The wilderness. A vast untamed landscape
where our power is limited, where our defenses are
useless. The wilderness. A place of solitude where we
are confronted with our own deepest selves, including
the parts of us we’d rather edit out or hide away.
This morning, we stand at the beginning of Lent in
the Christian year. We will spend this holy season of
repentance and reflection in the wilderness. For six
weeks, we’ll be immersed in the stories of scripture
that center spiritual and physical wastelands, and you
might know there are many from which to choose. This
is because, in the pages of scripture, God’s people
often find themselves wandering. In the gospels,
followers of Jesus are frequently lost. The journey of
faith takes us through—not around—the wilderness.
To begin that journey, we must take a risk. What I
mean is this: the wilderness is not usually a place
we visit by choice. After his baptism, Mark does not
tell us that Jesus decided to go on a personal retreat.
The Spirit drove him into the wilderness. Remember:
where the Spirit of God sends us, the Spirit of God
walks with us. So, we can be sure that there is
something sacred for us in this wild place. But that
terrible gift is rarely obvious to us. Not at first.
So, here’s the risk. We must release our death grip on
the control panel. That’s the first step, and it’s a doozy.
I’ll speak for myself. What I fear most in the wilderness
is its incessant reminder that I am not in charge.
Perhaps you are a bit like me. You struggle and you
strive to stay on top of things, on top of everything,
to maintain order, to display some degree of mastery
over your own life. And then, you are driven into the
wilderness, often against your will. The ground shifts
beneath your feet. A daunting diagnosis. A painful
and unexpected loss. A broken relationship. A change
you did not desire. The ground shifts beneath your
feet, and suddenly you are fragile, not in control. Your
power is limited, not limitless. Your humanity is on full
display. You are in the wilderness.
Mark tells us Jesus spent forty days tempted by
Satan. What is this temptation? I think you know. It’s
the very first one scripture records, all the way back
in the beginning. It is the temptation to be like God.
More to the point, the temptation to think, to really
believe, that we are gods. Both Matthew and Luke
fill in Mark’s brief account, describing in detail the
temptations Jesus faced in the wilderness. There
were three of them, each urging Jesus to take control
of the situation, to display his divine power to tame
the wilderness. Each one of them modeled after the
oldest temptation in the book, all the way back in
Eden when the serpent holds out that forbidden fruit
with this promise, “God knows that if you eat of it
your eyes will be opened, and you will become like
gods.” The temptation was more than our ancient
parents could resist. They were hooked by that line.
So are we. They wanted to be divine, and we want
the same thing.
We want to tame the wilderness. We are tempted to
take complete control over whatever we can get our
hands on. You know this about me—I love to clean.
In fact, whenever I am asked to describe my favorite
hobby, I’m tempted to begin with that one. Particularly
passionate about cleaning floors. I think it’s because
it’s the opposite of my day job. There is something so
satisfying about taking a rectangular, orderly space
of wood or carpet or stone and then watching how it
becomes new again as I pass over it with a vacuum
cleaner, or a broom, or a mop. Mowing the lawn works
the same way. You can see the results of your work
right there in front of you. I think my love for that
particular chore is rooted in my desire to have a little
control over at least one small thing in my life, but the
truth is that principle is expandable. If only I was in
charge, I would use my power for good. I would clean
things up around here, get things organized. Oh, how
that craving for control eats away at us. We try to
control our children—good luck. We try to control our
parents, our schedules, our future, our past.
Jesus is driven into the wilderness for forty days.
He is promised power beyond description. Satan
whispers in his ear and then shouts from the
mountaintop. Jesus, build a brand. Become an
influencer. Show them all what a boss you are. Tame
the wilderness. The temptation is always with us. It
takes so many different forms; the devil indeed wears
many disguises.
I don’t know which wilderness you find yourself
traveling through this morning, what kind of baggage
you carried in here, but I do know that you are
burdened. This week, take some time to acknowledge,
to name, the temptations that torment or trouble you.
Don’t judge yourself for having them—we all do. Don’t
try to push them aside—you can’t outrun them. Never
works. In the wilderness of Lent, just release your grip.
Just open your hands, and then pray for the courage to
brave this uncertain land. We understand the proverb
scribbled on the wall of an addiction recovery center
in a David Foster Wallace novel. The proverb says,
“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”
Trust the Spirit enough to release your grip. And then
you’re ready, ready to journey through, not around,
this wilderness.
Finally, here’s the good news: there is a promise at the
heart of this morning’s story and this sacred season.
It is a detail that even Mark, in his brevity, is sure to
include. The voice from heaven speaks the language
of love.
You are my Son, my Beloved; I am pleased with you.
I imagine that as Jesus is driven in to the wilderness,
those words echo in his heart. I imagine those
words are in his mind as he turns down temptation
after temptation. Beloved. I am beloved. Loved. I am
loved. Love. God is love. This promise is enough for
the journey.
If you were listening closely, you heard it this morning
spoken of two children of God in our congregation. It
is the baptismal promise. Della, you are loved. Riley,
you are loved. You are claimed. The promise allows
you to brave the wilderness, gives you the strength to
let go. You do not need to control the world or even
your own life, because all of it—all of it—is held in the
arms of God, the same arms that hold you.
So, as we begin this journey through the wilderness,
let the truth of your baptism echo in your heart:
My child.
Beloved.
Loved.
Amen.