Today’s Gospel story, for all
its strangeness, is one we’ve probably heard many times before. The danger is
that it can just go in one ear and out of the other. Jesus in the wilderness,
fasting forty days, tempted by the devil, stones into bread and all that stuff.
Its impact can be blunted even more by the fact that we know how it’s going to
end. It’s a foregone conclusion, isn’t it? Satan will be out-argued and sent
packing by Jesus – after all, Jesus is the Son of God, and the rest of the
Gospel would be a bit pointless if he fell at the first hurdle.
But just imagine that you
didn’t know how it was going to turn out. Just imagine you were hearing it for
the first time. What if Jesus made the wrong choices?
Matthew means us to take this
story seriously, to allow ourselves to wonder like that, to let the suspense be
real, because he knew that the temptations facing Jesus’ were temptations that
face us all. The Christian communities he
was writing for struggled to know what to do in the face of persecution
and the challenge of trying to form a united community from the wide variety of
backgrounds they came from. Life was
tough, as it can be for any of us. It was tempting to look for an easy way
through, an easy way out, even if that meant taking moral shortcuts, turning a
blind eye to what was right.
Knowing that Jesus – even
Jesus – had struggled as well mattered to them, and it matters to us too.
Jesus was about to begin his
ministry. He’d just been baptised by
John the Baptist in the Jordan and, as he’d come up out of the water, he’d
heard a voice from heaven saying, “This
is my Son, the beloved” . What does that do to you, to hear something like
that?
He’d been given power by his
Father. He would also be given power by those he ministered too, as they opened
themselves up to him, desperate for hope and healing, guidance and teaching. He’s being called to use his power, but he
knows that power is dangerous. Power can do damage as well as good.
The news these days is full of
stories of the abuse of power. Despotic rulers abuse their power over nations.
Bullies abuse their power in the workplace, in school, on social media. And of
course, day by day we hear an ever-lengthening, doleful litany of stories of
the deliberate abuse of children and vulnerable adults. This week Harvey
Weinstein was finally convicted of rape, and the Independent Inquiry into Child
Sexual Abuse reported on abuse in Westminster and its cover up. Abuse scandals
have emerged in every sphere of society, in sport, in education, in entertainment and, of course, in the Church too.
There have been a number of
high profile cases. Peter Ball, a former bishop, John Smyth who ran Christian
camps for boys from public schools, Jonathan Fletcher, once a leading light in
the Evangelical wing of the Church of England. Last week well-founded
allegations emerged about Jean Vanier, a Catholic layman who founded the
inspirational L’Arche communities where able bodied and disabled people live
together. He died last year, and in the wake of his death six women so far have
come forward independently of each other to report that he coerced them into
unwanted sexual activity over many years. He was widely regarded as a living
saint, a spiritual superhero, so it must have been incredibly hard for them to
blow the whistle on him, and very brave of them to do so.
As well as the cases that hit
the headlines, of course, there are many more which don’t, cases which may
never be reported at all. The majority of abuse happens within the family,
which ought to be the safest place of all.
What unites all these cases is
power. Abuse can take many forms: sexual, physical, emotional, spiritual. It may
take place in the workplace, in the home, in the church, in schools, in
voluntary organisations, but all abuse is rooted in the desire, the
all-consuming need, of the abuser to have power over those they abuse. “Look what I can do to you” they say. ”Look what I can make you do. And there’s
nothing you can do about it because it’s my word against yours and I am someone
people look up to. There’s nothing you can do about it because I am your boss,
your leader, your parent, your teacher, your spouse, your priest, someone whose
love or support or approval you need, someone you’ve been told to trust,
someone you wanted or needed to trust, someone you’ve thrown your lot in with,
and you can’t imagine what will happen if you challenge me.” Abusers abuse
because it makes them feel powerful, in control, even if it’s all based on
lies.
We’d like to suppose, of
course, if we are half-decent human beings, that those who can do these awful
things are fundamentally different from us – monsters – but the raw truth is
that wherever there is power, there is the possibility of its abuse, and power
is something that all of us have, even if it is only the power of a cutting
word, a snide comment, the threat of the withdrawal of friendship which keeps
others down. Abuse of power doesn’t have
to be dramatic to be dangerous. It doesn’t have to reach the level of a
criminal act to inflict real damage on others.
We all have power, and that means we can all use it abusively.
That’s why this story of
Jesus’ temptations matters so much, because it reminds us that even he could
have abused the power he had. Even he had to take that possibility
seriously and wrestle with it. And if he did, then so, surely, should
we.
The temptations to abuse
power which Jesus faced, are ones that face us all as we contemplate our own
power and how we use it.
His first temptation was to turn
stones into bread, to use his power to satisfy his own hunger, to meet his own
needs, rather than the needs of others, which was what that power had been
given for. In pastoral, caring situations we may be tempted to help others
because it makes us feel good about ourselves; it feeds us the bread of
affirmation, makes us feel worthwhile. But when we do that we treat the people
we are helping as if they were just put there to satisfy our hunger, our need
to be needed, rather than respecting them as autonomous individuals independent
of us, who we should be encouraging to live their own lives.
We can treat the natural
world as if it is just there to satisfy our hunger too, rather than respecting
it for itself. Stones are, after all, meant to be stones, not bread. We may not
be able to change them from one into the other, as Jesus perhaps could, but we
can, and do, transform the worlds' natural resources of oil into polluting
plastic and aviation fuel. We can, and do, transform Amazonian rainforest into
pasture land or palm oil plantations just because we fancy a cheap burger or
some cosmetics. That’s a form of abuse
too.
Jesus’ second temptation is to
throw himself off the top of the Temple, to prove to himself that he really is
who God says he is. God will surely catch
you, says Satan “if you’re really his
Son! The normal rules won’t apply to you, not even the law of gravity.” Those who abuse others often try to argue
that they’re special, exceptional, deserving different treatment from the rest
of humanity. They often seem to believe that they’re above the law. They’re
astonished, as Harvey Weinstein was, when the law disagrees. It might not seem
as serious, but if we howl in outrage when someone is mean or insulting to us, but
don’t see or acknowledge when we do the same to others, we are doing the same.
Jesus’ third temptation is to
use his power to rule by might and fear. Satan offers him “all the kingdoms of the world and their splendour” if he will
only worship him. For most of human history empires were won and kept by
armies, by terror, by repressive force. Roman rule was certainly like that.
Gladiatorial games and public crucifixion reminded people what would happen if
they didn’t submit. If Jesus had accepted Satan’s offer, he would just have become
another vicious despot like all the others. We may not have armies at our
command, but most of us can muster a whole array of petty cruelties, cutting
words and subtle threats if we feel we need to, leaving others scared to
challenge us. We know what buttons to press to make people do what we want.
Abuse of power isn’t just
found in those high profile cases. It’s something we can all be guilty of
That’s why we need to hear
this story of Jesus in the wilderness again and again and again. And we need
especially, of course, to hear how Jesus resists the temptation to abuse his power, if we are
going to do so as well.
Jesus knows, and acknowledges,
his own hunger, but he also trusts that God will give him what he needs, so he
doesn’t have to grab anxiously for food.
He doesn’t need to prove that
he is special in his Father’s eyes by putting God to the test either. He knows
he is, just as he reminds those he meets that they are too. He knows he’s ultimately safe, that he can’t
fall out of God’s hands, even if he falls right into the abyss of death, as he
will when he is crucified.
And he doesn’t need to rule
the world by might, because he knows that the only rule that really lasts will
be the rule of love, which is stronger than any worldly kingdom could be.
In the desert Jesus takes his
power seriously. He takes the possibility that he, even he, might abuse it
seriously. He hears the devil out; taking seriously the temptations he lays
before him. But in the end he resists those temptations, because he’s rooted
and grounded in the love of God.
As we begin this season of
Lent, with so many reminders of the abusive potential of power, we are called to
do as he does; to recognise our power, to know both its gifts and its
dangers, and, in response to that, to root and ground ourselves more deeply in
the love and wisdom of God, so that we can use it wisely.
Amen
If you need help with any abuse you have suffered or witnessed, you can find help and support here.
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