This sermon was preached on Sunday, February 22, 2015. The texts for this sermon were: Genesis 9:8-17, 1 Peter 3:18-22, Mark 1:9-15, and Psalm 25:1-9.
We’re talking a lot in church about wilderness this Lent. If you were with us on Ash Wednesday, you may have picked up a little Lent kit bag of your own piece of wilderness to take home with you. As I was setting up that devotional space in my own home, carving a nice, neat spiral in the sand, I realized I carry a lot of ideas about what wilderness is already even before I open the Bible.
Sometimes I like to think about wilderness as a beautiful, pristine place, unspoiled by modernity or urban life. I picture an idyllic, sun-lit meadow, filled with chirping birds and no evidence that any other human being has ever existed—not even a footprint! I carry that image of wilderness somewhere within me each time I venture into nature. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been out in nature filled with peaceful serenity as I survey the beauty of New England flora and fauna or the stunning glory of the Jordanian desert, only to glimpse a stray piece of litter and become instantly filled with frustration. I wish that I could say that my emotional reaction is completely due to empathy for our planet, or because the soda can or plastic bag reminds me of how our species is destroying the habitats of other creatures. But if I’m to be honest, it’s probably got a lot more to do with the fact that this piece of junk destroys my particular fantasy for me. The illusion of a pristine dream world has been shattered and I’m snapped back into this world, into reality. Wilderness, in that view, is a nice, clean place that is closer to God precisely because no one else is there to muck it up for me—or remind me of the very real problems I’m escaping.
Then we read Mark’s gospel. Here, Jesus is driven out into the desert right after—this translation says immediately—after a voice from heaven declares him to be his beloved son. Jesus’s first steps after his baptism are into a hard and difficult place, devoid of people, and water, and food. We’re told Jesus is out there for forty days, tempted by Satan himself, waited on by angels. Mark doesn’t tell us much more about what happens in that place. We are left to wonder about the temptations Jesus faces, and the parts of his humanity that he confronts. But we do know that right after that experience, Jesus is called back into Galilee to proclaim the good news of God. Whatever happens in the wilderness prepares Jesus for his ministry to the world, for his ultimate sacrifice and resurrection. Jesus, the Jesus we meet on the cross on Good Friday, is formed by and through and in the wilderness desert.
I think that in thinking of Lenten wilderness, Mark’s gospel calls us to ask ourselves: when it comes to wilderness, are we driven away or driven to, and for what purpose? When I think about the ideas about wilderness I bring to this gospel passage, I wonder if some of them may distract me from the kind of wilderness Lent is calling me to enter. Am I seeking a wilderness that lets me turn a blind eye to the messiness of where I actually am? Am I longing for a beautiful place that doesn’t exist? Or am I even, in all my Lenten pet self-improvement projects, longing for a me that doesn’t exist? The wilderness is a real place, and like every real place, and every real human being, it’s going to be imperfect.
I wonder if it is also real in the sense that it presents no escape from the realities of personal transformation. It’s a direct confrontation with our own weaknesses, and the reality of who we are. It’s a moment of honesty when we realize the parts of life we let distract us from God, our sins. Lent is also a time for preparation, but not just for Easter. Like Jesus, we are prepared for each of our different ministries to the world by and through and in the wilderness. The wilderness is not an absence of litter or people or imperfection. It is not a space away from reality or ourselves. We are driven into the wilderness because it is where the Spirit is calling us to be. It is where we are able to be transformed.
I think this gospel passage also tells us another important thing about wilderness. Mark’s story of Jesus’s preparation in the desert would not be complete without that first declaration from the Holy Spirit, descending as a dove. “You are my Beloved, with whom I am well-pleased.” Jesus is not sent into the wilderness because he needs to get some self-improvement out of the way before he gets God’s stamp of approval. His time of trial is not a punishment for unworthiness. Jesus begins from a place of knowing he is loved. So, too, with us. As we head into the real wilderness of our lives, let us do so from a place of knowing that God is already pleased with who we are. Just like the wilderness doesn’t have to be pristine and clean and untouched to be a holy place, we don’t need to be transformed to be worthy of his love.
Holy Spirit,
You call us into the wilderness today. Grant us the strength to enter it willingly, seeking transformation. Prepare us for own ministries in the world. Remind us, too, to set out on this journey in the knowledge that we are loved.
In Jesus’s name,
Amen.
We’re talking a lot in church about wilderness this Lent. If you were with us on Ash Wednesday, you may have picked up a little Lent kit bag of your own piece of wilderness to take home with you. As I was setting up that devotional space in my own home, carving a nice, neat spiral in the sand, I realized I carry a lot of ideas about what wilderness is already even before I open the Bible.
Sometimes I like to think about wilderness as a beautiful, pristine place, unspoiled by modernity or urban life. I picture an idyllic, sun-lit meadow, filled with chirping birds and no evidence that any other human being has ever existed—not even a footprint! I carry that image of wilderness somewhere within me each time I venture into nature. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been out in nature filled with peaceful serenity as I survey the beauty of New England flora and fauna or the stunning glory of the Jordanian desert, only to glimpse a stray piece of litter and become instantly filled with frustration. I wish that I could say that my emotional reaction is completely due to empathy for our planet, or because the soda can or plastic bag reminds me of how our species is destroying the habitats of other creatures. But if I’m to be honest, it’s probably got a lot more to do with the fact that this piece of junk destroys my particular fantasy for me. The illusion of a pristine dream world has been shattered and I’m snapped back into this world, into reality. Wilderness, in that view, is a nice, clean place that is closer to God precisely because no one else is there to muck it up for me—or remind me of the very real problems I’m escaping.
Then we read Mark’s gospel. Here, Jesus is driven out into the desert right after—this translation says immediately—after a voice from heaven declares him to be his beloved son. Jesus’s first steps after his baptism are into a hard and difficult place, devoid of people, and water, and food. We’re told Jesus is out there for forty days, tempted by Satan himself, waited on by angels. Mark doesn’t tell us much more about what happens in that place. We are left to wonder about the temptations Jesus faces, and the parts of his humanity that he confronts. But we do know that right after that experience, Jesus is called back into Galilee to proclaim the good news of God. Whatever happens in the wilderness prepares Jesus for his ministry to the world, for his ultimate sacrifice and resurrection. Jesus, the Jesus we meet on the cross on Good Friday, is formed by and through and in the wilderness desert.
I think that in thinking of Lenten wilderness, Mark’s gospel calls us to ask ourselves: when it comes to wilderness, are we driven away or driven to, and for what purpose? When I think about the ideas about wilderness I bring to this gospel passage, I wonder if some of them may distract me from the kind of wilderness Lent is calling me to enter. Am I seeking a wilderness that lets me turn a blind eye to the messiness of where I actually am? Am I longing for a beautiful place that doesn’t exist? Or am I even, in all my Lenten pet self-improvement projects, longing for a me that doesn’t exist? The wilderness is a real place, and like every real place, and every real human being, it’s going to be imperfect.
I wonder if it is also real in the sense that it presents no escape from the realities of personal transformation. It’s a direct confrontation with our own weaknesses, and the reality of who we are. It’s a moment of honesty when we realize the parts of life we let distract us from God, our sins. Lent is also a time for preparation, but not just for Easter. Like Jesus, we are prepared for each of our different ministries to the world by and through and in the wilderness. The wilderness is not an absence of litter or people or imperfection. It is not a space away from reality or ourselves. We are driven into the wilderness because it is where the Spirit is calling us to be. It is where we are able to be transformed.
I think this gospel passage also tells us another important thing about wilderness. Mark’s story of Jesus’s preparation in the desert would not be complete without that first declaration from the Holy Spirit, descending as a dove. “You are my Beloved, with whom I am well-pleased.” Jesus is not sent into the wilderness because he needs to get some self-improvement out of the way before he gets God’s stamp of approval. His time of trial is not a punishment for unworthiness. Jesus begins from a place of knowing he is loved. So, too, with us. As we head into the real wilderness of our lives, let us do so from a place of knowing that God is already pleased with who we are. Just like the wilderness doesn’t have to be pristine and clean and untouched to be a holy place, we don’t need to be transformed to be worthy of his love.
Holy Spirit,
You call us into the wilderness today. Grant us the strength to enter it willingly, seeking transformation. Prepare us for own ministries in the world. Remind us, too, to set out on this journey in the knowledge that we are loved.
In Jesus’s name,
Amen.
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