First Sunday in Lent, March 10, 2019

O God of our many songs: grant us the strength, the wisdom and the courage to seek always and everywhere after truth, come when it may and cost what it will.

Earlier in the week, when our Deacon Bob suggested that our Gospel lesson be read by both of us, to emphasize the dialog, I jumped at the chance to read (and embellish) the lines given to the devil because, in my experience, the voice of the devil always sounds reasonable, and I am nothing if not reasonable. You might know that the Greek word for devil, diabolos, or the Hebrew word, satan, can refer to anyone who brings charges or challenges against someone else. It’s the role of prosecutor. According to Luke, Jesus had just experienced at his baptism, a voice assuring him that he was the beloved child of the Holy One. Then, curiously, Luke adds Jesus’ 78 generation genealogy. It starts with: He was the son (as was thought) of Joseph son of Heli, son of Matthat, son of Levi…and so on, about 50 more generations through David, back to son of Judah, son of Jacob, son of Isaac, son of Abraham, son of Terah….and back 16 more generations to son of Seth, son of Adam, son of God. According to Luke, Jesus is (by adoption) “son of God” because he is a direct descendant of Adam, who was the son of God. The point is, Jesus has heard a voice from heaven saying, “You are my Son, the Beloved,” and Luke has listed Jesus’ lineage, back to son of Adam, son of God.

Right after that comes the reasonable voice in the wilderness saying to Jesus, “Prove it. Prove it. Prove it.” It sounds to me like the devil is challenging both Jesus’ humanity and his divinity at the same time. As a matter of discernment, I wonder if the difference between the Holy Spirit and the Diabolical Spirit is the difference between building up and tearing down belovedness. The difference between the spirit of holiness and the spirit of unholiness is the difference between integration and disintegration of belovedness. In his answers to that unholy voice, Jesus asserted three things that would become hallmarks of his ministry.

The first is that self-sufficiency is not the divine intention for humanity. “One does not live by bread alone.” The rest of that quote from Deuteronomy that Jesus cites is “but by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord.” And every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord is about loving the Holy One and loving one’s neighbor as oneself, including the resident aliens. That’s what is always needed in addition to bread: Love. It’s not just about getting oneself and others fed – it’s also about relationships. Perhaps Jesus was getting clear in this challenge about how much relationships were going to matter in his work.
Jesus’ second response is: “Worship the Lord your God and serve only God.” This comes from a section of Deuteronomy that calls for the community to reject idolatry. Attempts to achieve greatness or gain authority by selling out in small or big ways to the golden calves of money or power are forms of idolatry that persuade us that ends justify means. The alternative is humble service with honorable means, with deep integrity. Perhaps Jesus was getting clear in this challenge about how to focus on the journey, more so than on the destination.

And finally, “Do not put the Lord your God to the test,” comes from the same section of Deuteronomy as the last quote and it reminds listeners of the Hebrew people who feared that they would not reach the promised land because they were parched and lacked water, but then water was provided by the Holy One. This is a Torah story that teaches us to stop asking for or demanding proof of the existence or the love of the Holy One, and to just keep doing the next right thing. Perhaps Jesus was getting clear in this challenge about how to trust rather than test the Divine — all the way to the cross if necessary.

Notice that after the first two challenges from the diabolical spirit are met with quotations from scripture, the devil adjusts the approach to quote scripture too. The devil quotes a familiar line from a hymn, number 91 in the Psalter. Huh. The spirit of the diabolical knows the words to hymns. Psalms had been sung in worship – that is, the psalter had functioned as a hymnbook — for at least 500 years by the time Jesus came along (and they’ve been sung 2000 years since), so I guess there have been some chances for the devil to learn the words, in order to use them to pull apart the fabric of belovedness among the people of the Holy One. Although Jesus does cite psalms, his response to the unholy spirit goes back to Torah. This is a signal to me that quoting the Torah is a more powerful response than quoting a sacred song.

A few weeks ago, I had the luxury of spending two days with Dr. Ellen Davis, who is Professor of Bible and Practical Theology at Duke University Divinity School. Her topic was the psalter. She emphasized that as hymns, the psalms are poetry set to music. She reminded us that “poetry is the best language to use for feeling your way with words.” She described Lent as a period of time when as a church, we are “feeling our way to the cross.” During Lent we are cultivating our longing for the Holy One, and our hunger and thirst for right-relationship with one another.

It’s noteworthy that the Hebrew word for the psalms, tehillim, means praisings, and about 70 percent of the praisings are laments. You wouldn’t know that from hearing psalms in church, because it’s the happy, hopeful parts of the psalms that are most often repeated. John Calvin called the psalter, “an anatomy of all parts of the soul.” Whether the parts of the soul are complaining or celebrating, poetic statements are not doctrinal statements. Nor are feeling statements of any kind up for debate. When the psalmist says, “this is how I feel.” The appropriate response is never, “Well, you’re wrong. Or, that is inaccurate. Or you should feel differently than you do.” When someone articulates a feeling, I might not be feeling the same way, but I can respectfully acknowledge the feeling, which, by the way, means no eye-rolling.

I put the whole text of Psalm 91 on the announcement sheet. It’s the translation from the St. Helena Psalter that we use when we worship in Lindsey Chapel. We don’t sing or recite the appointed psalms in our worship when Emmanuel Music is in residence. Sometimes the psalm text appointed for the day is offered between the first and second readings (as it will be during all of Lent). We’ll also sing a metrical hymn setting of the appointed psalms during Lent.

Our own Isaac Everett has written a book on the psalms called The Emergent Psalter. [1] In his introduction to the book, Isaac writes that “the New Testament contains no fewer than ninety-three quotes from more than sixty of the psalms.” What Isaac writes about Psalm 91 is that the temptations of Jesus in the desert “demonstrate how Scripture can mean astonishingly different things depending on who is quoting it. It didn’t mean to Jesus what it meant to the devil, it didn’t necessarily mean to … Luke what it meant to the psalmist, and it probably doesn’t mean to me what it means to you.”

As a hymn, Psalm 91 kind of reminds me of “O God our help in ages past,” which is a setting of its immediate neighbor, Psalm 90. Psalm 91 also reminds me of Amazing Grace. When we sing Amazing Grace on a regular Sunday service, some people might respond, “oh this is one of my favorites,” and others might heave a sigh, “oh this is so overly sentimental” and still others are indifferent. But I have to tell you, when one or both of those hymns are sung at a tragic funeral, then the words are about deep conviction and courage and hope for meeting the dreadful hours and days ahead. Then they are death-defying hymns that proclaim trust in God Who hears, God Who shelters, God Who Loves. When we sing one or both of these hymns through our tears, and with our shaky and grieving voices, they sound completely different. Do you know what I mean? The stones and lions and serpents that will not hurt our feet are not literal, they are metaphorical. And when we sing these songs through our tears, our tears become the most reliable evidence of the existence of God. Our tears, whether they are tears of sorrow or anger or exhaustion or gratitude, or a combination of all four, are sacramental – an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace.

And grace, according to our tradition, has nothing to do with deserving, or merit. New York Times journalist Peter Wehner wrote about the uncommon power of grace in an opinion piece this past December. I want to close by reading you an excerpt of what he wrote: “There’s a radical equality at the core of grace. None of us are deserving of God’s grace, so it’s not dependent on social status, wealth or intelligence [or accomplishment]. There is equality between kings and peasants, the prominent and the unheralded, rule followers and rule breakers. If you find yourself in the company of people whose hearts have been captured by grace, count yourself lucky. They love us despite our messy lives, stay connected to us through our struggles, always holding out the hope of redemption. When relationships are broken… it’s grace that causes people not to give up, to extend the invitation to reconnect, to work through misunderstandings with sensitivity and transparency. You don’t sense hard edges, dogmatism or self-righteous judgment from gracious people. There’s a tenderness about them that opens doors that had previously been bolted shut. People who have been transformed by grace have a special place in their hearts for those living in the shadows of society. They’re easily moved by stories of suffering and step into the breach to heal. And grace … always produces gratitude.” This Lent, I encourage you to practice giving thanks for grace. I encourage you to practice getting clearer about the importance of right-relationship with yourself and others. Practice focusing on your journey and not your destination. Practice trusting rather than testing the Divine. Practice building up belovedness.