Paths Into the Wilderness

We often romanticize the “wilderness”when we see that phrase in the Bible — we think of the Boundary Waters or some other pristine part of the outdoors.  But the wilderness was something considerably more ominous in Jesus’ time, and Lent always starts with a visit to the wilderness …

Paths into the Wilderness

Psalm 25:1-10  Mark 1:9-15 

I have a funky piece of software that lets me search the texts of the hymns in the New Century Hymnal for specific words or phrases. It is a great help to me when I am trying to choose hymns that will reinforce and strengthen our understanding of the day’s Biblical text. It is often instructive (and rather frustrating) to learn what topics often appear in this collection of hymns, and which ones do not. This week, I searched for hymns with the words “wild,” “wildness,” and “wilderness.”

The ones I found fell roughly into two groups. There were some that spoke of the wilderness as a precious gift from God; and this being the UCC, some of those (like Dan Damon’s “Pray for the Wilderness”) were pleas for us to care for this gift. The others referred to Biblical texts where people went out to the wilderness – the Hebrew people wandering for 40 years, John the Baptist, and now Jesus, wandering for 40 days.

These are strikingly different images. To some extent they reflect geographical realities. The wildernesses we are sentimental about here in Minnesota are wooded, coursed by rivers and streams, and for part of the year at least, habitable and hospitable. The wilderness of Judah, on the other hand, is a harsh land – rugged and dry, supporting little life during most of the year. It is bitterly cold in the summer and fiercely hot in the summer; there are crags and cliffs and dry water courses. The wilderness to which Jesus repaired after his baptism by John in the Jordan was nothing like Nerstrand Park or the Boundary waters.

It is into this barren, inhospitable land, that we invite you for these weeks of Lent. The story of Jesus in the wilderness is always the reading for this first Sunday of the season in which we prepare ourselves for the coming of Easter. If truth be told, we are usually glad to get to the end of this story – to be out of the wilderness, away from Satan and the beasts, and back on the road to the mountain and the seashore and the temple.

But this year, we are going to linger in the wilderness. We are going to understand our journey through Lent to be about staying in the wilderness and learning its lessons, rather than escaping at the first opportunity. Now the version we heard of that story this morning from the gospel of Mark is starkly simple compared to the more elaborate narratives in the books of Matthew and Luke. The whole thing is described in just two verses (I suspect we hear the story of the baptism again just to make the passage long enough to feel like a real lesson). But it is long enough to tell us about four different paths into the wilderness.

And the wilderness we are talking about is, of course, not just geographic; it is the wilderness of our spirit. It is the human condition of loneliness, alienation, despair, hopelessness, and emptiness. It is the place where our souls feel cut off from all that fills our hunger and slakes our thirst.

It is good to notice at the outset that Jesus himself did not choose to go into the wilderness. Mark tells us that the Spirit (capital S) “immediately drove him out into the wilderness.” [Mark 1:12] My colleague and friend Tim McDermott, upon whose Greek scholarship I often depend, tells me that this verb translated as “drove out” is much harsher than that, maybe “hauled out.” He compared it to his experience as a child when a teacher grabbed him by the ear, dragged him out of the classroom, and shoved him down the stairs towards the principal’s office.

The first path into the wilderness, then, is an involuntary one. There is no hint in the text that Jesus knew what was coming, or why he was shoved out into the desert. In the same way, we sometimes find ourselves in places of spiritual desolation without any warning. Later, we may come to understand and appreciate the lessons of our exile – but that does not make it any less uncomfortable while it is going on. It is not, I think, that we are victims of the Spirit’s vagaries, but we are subject to them.

We are told that Jesus was tempted by Satan – though in this version (unlike Matthew’s and Luke’s) we have no details of those temptations. Nor does Mark’s gospel show us Jesus outsmarting Satan with clever answers that refer to the Hebrew Scriptures. In some ways, that makes this terse version even more ominous; what is unknown can be more frightening than what is seen.

Most of us in this congregation are uneasy talking about Satan – sometimes because of experiences in other faith communities, sometimes because it is intellectually troubling, and sometimes because we simply don’t believe that evil is personified in the way traditional language about Satan suggests. But most of us also recognize the reality and peril of the evil in the world – whether or not we give that evil the name of Satan. And it is disturbingly easy to imagine – or recognize – how we ourselves might be tempted by the powers of evil. There are the obvious ones – money, power, and sex; and there are the more subtle ones – social or intellectual status, revenge, arrogance, envy, pride. We are sure to meet some of these on our path to the wilderness.

Then there are the wild beasts. They are not named, and they do not appear in any of the other gospel accounts. We do not know which ones would have aroused the most fear in Jesus, but we can imagine which ones would terrify us: snakes, perhaps, or scorpions; wolves (or the Judean equivalent); birds of prey.

In the spiritual wilderness, the wild beasts are all the natural events that collide with our comfort, convenience, and plans. There are illnesses and injuries, disappointments, accidents, and losses; addictions and alcoholism are wild beasts, and so perhaps are mental illnesses. They threaten our safety and our sanity, and more ominously they steal our sense of security and self-sufficiency.

And then there are the angels, the ones that “waited on” Jesus (or in some translations, “served” him). The sense we usually make of this text is that the angels escorted him out of the wilderness, that they comforted, healed, and perhaps fed and clothed him. But it is also possible, I think, that the angels were on the path into the wilderness for Jesus.

Dark as it may sound, it is sometimes the people around us who love us and care for us who lead us into the wilderness. Sometimes it is accidental – we are carried along with some misfortune of theirs into the harshness of the desert. On the other hand, sometimes it is compassionate: our loved ones sense something amiss in our souls and know that only a sojourn in the wilderness will really wake us up, move us into the humility and resolve, the healing and the faithful reliance that are all needed for our health and wholeness.

One of the gifts of this compact version of the story of Jesus’ temptation is that we know what happens at the end: Jesus goes into Galilee, “proclaiming the good news of God, and saying, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news.”

This path that I have been describing is not a path to nowhere; it is a path to the good news of God’s presence, power, and mercy. Jesus was not the first to walk this path, of course. The ancient poet who wrote Psalm 25 speaks for Jesus and speaks for us: “Make me to know your ways, O Lord, teach me your paths.” [Psalm 25:4] The path into the wilderness is one of God’s paths (though not the only one). The psalmist also testifies to this faith: “All the paths of the Lord are steadfast love and faithfulness …” [Psalm 25:10]

It is precisely because God’s paths are steadfast love and faithfulness that we are wiling to follow into this unknown and forbidding wilderness of the spirit. And it is precisely because God’s paths are steadfast love and faithfulness that we are confident that the other kind of wilderness – the verdant and beautiful one – awaits us at the end of the path.

Amen.

Prayer for March 1, 2009

Almighty and everlasting God, creator of all things seen and unseen, hear now our silent prayers, as we open our hearts to you in the sacred quietness.

God of faith and hope, we bring before you our prayers for those we have named this morning – we especially remember … Bring to each of them the gifts of mercy and grace that are most needed, according to your wisdom and love. Amen

Today and for the weeks of Lent, our usual pastoral prayer will be replaced by a meditation focused on an art image. Each week, we will look at the image with the children during their special time, then return to the same image to explore it more deeply and more prayerfully together after the joys and concerns.

After the service, or later in the week, you may want to discuss your experience with others who are here this morning.

Although most of us are accustomed to closing our eyes during prayer, I hope that you will at least begin these meditations with your eyes open. In the same way that listening to music can be a prayer, I believe you will find that entering a work of art can, too. As the meditation continues, you may wish to close your eyes to hold and focus the image in your mind.

The image for today is a photograph titled “Velocity,” by Brendon Purdy.

Let us prayerfully reflect on this image.

God of the road to Emmaus, be present with us as we travel this road in our imaginations. Open our hearts to hear your voice speaking to us through our eyes instead of just our ears. We ask these things in the name of our companion on the road, Jesus. Amen.

We begin by looking at the whole image: take a few moments to let your eyes travel around the picture and notice what parts of it draw your attention.

Imagine that you are standing at the bottom of this picture, looking at the rider as the bicycle moves towards you. Notice your reaction to the movement in the image.

[Invert image if possible] Imagine that you are standing at the top of this picture, looking down on the back of the rider as the bicycle moves away from you. Reflect on the ways this line of vision is different from the one at the bottom of the hill.

And now imagine yourself as the rider. Pay attention to what that would feel like in your body: feel the wind and the sun, the effort of the ride, the fatigue or elation in your muscles.

Return now to the image as a whole, and make yourself available for any insight or lesson that it may have for you this morning.

Gently, now come back from the image and into our space together.

Holy One, we thank you for this image and for the art of the photographer who brought it to us. May its beauty and depth travel with us this week, as we continue our journey into the wilderness of Lent. Amen.