For me, the word “wilderness” conjures images of the deep forests of the Appalachian mountains. Maybe for others it evokes memories of giant sequoias, red rock canyons or lush rainforests. But when we read about the wilderness in Scripture, it isn’t what I imagine; instead, the wilderness of Judea was less hospitable and more treacherous - a barren region between the Dead Sea and the Hebron mountains, more like the Mojave desert that stretches across the southwest.
Understanding what assumptions we bring to our reading of Scripture and asking questions about the text are always good ideas, especially when it’s a passage that we think we know because we hear it so often. We heard this same account of Jesus’ baptism when the season after Epiphany began six weeks ago and then we heard it echoed in the Transfiguration just last Sunday. But today I am going to focus on what happens after Jesus' baptism, when he is in the wilderness.
Of course, Mark doesn’t give us a lot to work with. The temptation of Jesus is only two verses long in this gospel. Unlike Matthew and Luke’s longer narratives, Mark never says that Jesus fasts. We don’t have any details about Satan’s hijinks here. Mark doesn’t include any of the banter between Satan and Jesus; in fact, Jesus doesn’t even speak in Mark’s account.
One detail Mark does include that isn’t in Matthew or Luke, is that “[Jesus] was with the wild beasts. In my imagination, again, I want this to be like the peaceful kingdom in Isaiah 11 where the prophet says, "The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them." (Isaiah 11:6)
However, it’s more likely in the biblical narrative that the “wild beasts” were just that - untamed beasts of the field or beasts of prey that would have threatened Jesus’s safety in the wilderness. They were less the friendly talking animals from the Chronicles of Narnia and more like the ravenous dinosaurs in Jurassic Park.
In ancient cultures, the wilderness was symbolic. It marked the boundary of civilization. Like Scripture’s use of the sea to symbolize chaos, the wilderness represents the domain of Satan and those forces that are hostile to God; it is a place that is not bound by tradition, a place where the rules don’t apply. And so, in these two verses, Mark sets up a cosmic struggle between, on one hand, the divine - the Holy Spirit who drove Jesus into the wilderness and the angels who minister to him while he is there – and, on the other, Satan and all evil powers and creatures.
Mark says the Spirit drove Jesus into the wilderness. The Greek actually is the same word used to describe Jesus casting out demons in all three of the synoptic gospels. There is an intensity in this action of casting Jesus out into the wilderness that we don’t hear in Matthew and Luke where the Spirit merely leads Jesus into the wilderness.
And then we have the imagery of forty days. Forty days is a refrain we hear in the story of the rains before the Flood (Genesis 7:12), again when Moses climbs Mt. Sinai (Exodus 24:18), when the Philistine Goliath taunts Israel (1 Samuel 17:6) and when Elijah travels to Horeb to anoint Elisha (1 Kings 19:4). God is present in each of these Old Testament stories, guiding and guarding the faithful.
Jesus is never alone in the wilderness here either. God doesn’t throw Jesus to the wolves to be destroyed; instead the period of temptation is a test of dependence upon God. God meets him there and the angels are ministering to him.
Having triumphed over evil, now Jesus stands at the threshold of his public ministry.
For all of us this Lenten season, we are also standing at a threshold. On Ash Wednesday, we acknowledged our human frailty and confessed our dependence upon God. The cross is the place where me meet God when we realize we cannot live in accordance with God’s commands, when we recognize our human limits, but the Good News is God doesn’t ever leave us there in our despair or sadness.
God meets us, and raises us up to new life, inviting us to cross the threshold into something new.
The late Mary Oliver’s poem titled “Praying” describes the invitation this way:
It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch
a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway
into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.[i]
What threshold are you standing at and where might God meet you?
Oliver invites us to cross a threshold into thanksgiving and a silence where we can hear God speak. In Psalms for Praying, Nan Merrill rewrites Psalm 85 to say, “Listen in the silent chapel of your heart.” Maybe that’s the threshold you cross this Lent, to open your heart and listen to hear God speak and silence the noise that drowns out the Holy One.
Or maybe Lent is inviting you into new rhythms and practices to draw near to God, to shed the habits and temptations that have prevented you from spending time with God in the past.
Or perhaps you find yourself in the wilderness or reflecting on a wilderness experience you’ve had in the past. A place where you felt deserted, overlooked or disregarded. A time that disoriented you or challenged you, calling you to dependence on God.
This Lent, may you have confidence and assurance that God meets you wherever you are and remains with you.
Amen.
[i] Mary Oliver. “Praying” from Thirst.
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