A meditation for Lent

The landscape is empty, only the fierce furnace of the sun blazes mercilessly on the scorched land. All life has scuttled for sanctuary among the crevices of the rocks, or lies up in the hollows of the dried-up watercourses waiting for the cooling breeze of evening. All life that is, save that of the gaunt figure of a man picking his way wearily to the shade of a lone tree. He’s hungry, thirsty, and tired yet from his eyes there still gleams a wise compassion that seems infinitely older than his age. He sits down and rests his eyes fixed on a jumbled heap of boulders shaped like round loaves of bread. They remind him of his hunger. "Turn them into loaves," comes the whisper. "You are starving, satisfy your hunger. Are you not God’s Son?" He looks up, as if seeing another before him, yet he appears to be alone.

"That’s what the voice said at your baptism," goes on his questioner. "’You are my Son.’ Or was it just your imagination, a trick of the brain, an illusion? Perhaps you are not whom you imagine yourself to be but are just an ordinary carpenter infected with Messianic fervour. Prove that I’m wrong. If you do succeed it will win you a lot of votes. There is a lot of hunger in the world. Millions are starving. And even if you do believe in yourself, then turning stones into bread will convince the atheists and the sceptics. Go on turn them into loaves!"

The man looks again at the rocks and shakes his head. "It is written," he replies, "Not by bread alone does man live, but from every word that comes from the mouth of God."

"Come with me," the voice persists, "I want you to see something. I will take you to the Temple. There’s nothing wrong with a visit to your Father’s house, is there? Tell you what, we needn’t even leave the desert. Let me open up your imagination. We’ve entered the main gate and have gone through the courts into the Holy Place. Now we are in the Temple itself and have climbed to the roof at its highest point. Don’t look down! It’s a long drop! But I’m forgetting you are God’s Son. You lead a charmed life. Jump! It’s okay. You can depend on the Father. Does not the scripture say: ‘His angels will protect you, lest you strike your foot against a rock.’? It’s quite safe. Think of the entertainment value; think of the draw that a miracle will have. Once you have gathered the crowd by this stunt they will hang upon your words. So jump!"

The man looks down and up again, then he shakes his head once more: "I see you know your Bible," he replies. "Yet that does not surprise me. Let me give you another text that will put this suggestion beyond argument: ‘You shall not put the Lord your God to the test.’"

Undaunted the voice continues: "As I see you have a head for heights, come with me to a mountaintop —again a holy place. For did not Abraham, Moses and Elijah have mountaintop experiences, moments of vision? I too can weave visions, so stand with me on the roof of the world to see your destiny. I’m pleased that my talk of bread and circuses did not impress you as they have the Roman world. You are made of finer stuff; you are made to wield power, to exercise authority. Before you kings will bow and emperors will do you homage. Look, this is my world."

The man looks. Spread out before him in a trice is the long march of history, kings, emperors, dictators and presidents, generals and commanders, men and women of wealth, power and influence, all who rule, all who conquer, all who control, all of them bowing before a throne on which he sits. "It is yours," says the voice, "I give it to you and all its glory. All I ask is that you acknowledge me; that you call me your Lord, and you shall have it now. What is your answer?"

The man pauses, considering, then gazes down again. Now instead of the panoply of power, he sees a man wearing a crown of thorns and a purple robe mocked and buffeted by jeering soldiers. Afterwards he looks into the tormented face of a crucified man and finds his own. He stands erect: "Depart! Accuser, for scripture says, ‘You shall worship God and serve him alone.’"

The sun is now setting and a cool breeze springs up seeming to whisper, "Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased."

The man takes up his staff and starts to walk towards the far horizon.

Revd Don Dowling

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