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The First Sunday in Lent Luke 4:1-13 |
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You can search your Bible through and through, and you'll never find any mention of Lent, because it wasn't observed in biblical times. There is some evidence that the early Christians fasted 40 hours between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, but the custom of spending 40 whole days in prayer and self-denial didn't become a part of church tradition until much later. After the idea of Jesus’ imminent return was past, when it became apparent that the world was not going to end immediately, as the early church had believed, Christians stopped expecting so much from God and from themselves. They simply hung a wooden cross on the wall and settled back into their more or less comfortable routines, remembering their once passionate devotion to God the same way the Israelites came to remember their ancestral “wanderings” and their dependence on the God of their salvation: a sentimental longing for miracles and inspiration. Ah, for the good ole days, when it seemed almost anything was possible. Like the Israelites of old, little by little, Christians became devoted to their comforts instead: the soft couch, the wool sweaters, the roasted meat, “milk and honey” living. These were the things that gave them peace after a difficult day. That made them feel safe and secure and cared-for, if not by God, then by themselves. Christians no longer distinguished themselves by their bold love for one another. They no longer got arrested for championing the poor or protesting the "system." They blended in. They avoided extremes. They weren’t as concerned about right and wrong as they were about “each- to-his-own.” They decided to be nice instead of holy. And God shook his head and sighed. But somewhere along the way, someone heard those sighs coming from heaven and decided it was time to call Christians back to their senses, and the Bible offered some clues on how to do that. Israel had spent 40 years in the wilderness learning to trust the Lord. Elijah spent 40 days there before he finally heard the still, small, powerful voice of God—on the same mountain where Moses spent 40 days listening to God give the law. And then there was the gospel story—the story we heard today—about Jesus’ own 40 days in the wilderness—a period of preparation and testing before the beginning of his formal ministry. So the church, sometime between the 7th and 10th centuries announced the season of Lent, from the old English word lenten, meaning "spring"—not only in reference to the season before Easter, but also as an invitation to a springtime for the soul—40 days of self-examination and penitence, of fasting, forgiveness, and prayer. Not for the purpose of self-punishment but for the purpose of self-awakening. Forty days to cleanse the system and open the eyes to what remains when our comfort is gone. Forty days to remember what its like to live by the grace of God and not by what we can supply for ourselves. That's why we do without. That’s why we give up things. Not to penalize nor to pretend that our little sacrifices in any way measure up to the great sacrifice our Lord made for us, but as a reminder and remembrance of his sacrifice—of our dependence on God, of our loyalty to God, of our love and need for God—as a reminder and remembrance that it is God, not us, who is in control. And letting go like that—losing control, trusting completely, outside yourself—is hard. And it's awful. And it's necessary. It forces us to encounter the world for a while raw and to know that all those hurting, empty places in our lives are there because we've refused the “doctoring” of the Great Physician. We've tried to replace the healing powers of God with some pain-numbing salve of our own making. But our pain-killers only provide us with temporary relief. After a while, we either become immune to them or so doped up we don't even know how we're supposed to feel. If we want those empty places in our lives filled—if we want those hurting, wounded parts of lives healed, then we have to lay them open, unbandage them, expose them, so that the holy of holies can enter and cleanse and restore those places back to health. And it hurts. And it's hard. And it's awful. And it's necessary. We have to trust God enough to leave our old comforts behind. We have to trust enough to enter the wilderness alone and for 40 days and 40 nights allow God to work in us—to create in us clean hearts, to renew in us right spirits. If you get hungry, well, maybe it's because you're supposed to be hungry. If you get lonely, maybe it's because you're supposed to be alone. If you feel lost in the wilderness, then just try wandering around in that wilderness for a while. Live with it for a while instead of trying to fix it and see what happens. See what you find out. You might just get well instead of getting bandaged! Letting go of our comforts—our pacifiers—taking up a Lenten discipline is one way of becoming more conscious about our freedom to choose. We really do have choices about how we will live our lives. Our capacity to say "yes" and "no" is one of God's greatest gifts to us. Lent is a good time to reclaim that gift. To recover the practice of saying "yes" and "no" and furthermore to do what we say. So don't let that little voice in your head talk you out of your freedom this Lent. When you're in the wilderness working hard to keep a holy Lent and maintain your Lenten discipline—when you're listening for God and instead hear someone calling you back to your comfort, back to your pacifier, convincing you you're wasting your time on some dumb exercise that doesn't prove a thing—remember who that voice belongs to. And if you don't know, then read this morning's gospel lesson again, (it's the same guy that was talking to Jesus) and you tell him the same thing Jesus told him: to "get lost." Then you decide what you will do for Lent. And whose you will be. "Worship the Lord your God and serve only him." Keep a holy Lent. Expect great things from God and from yourself, and believe that anything (and everything) is possible with God.
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