For many years, the most popular humanities course

at Duke University was a small group seminar in

the English Department taught by the late Southern

novelist Reynolds Price. The course was simply titled

The Gospels. After studying the Gospels of Mark and

John, which Price described as “documents largely

unprecedented in world literature,” students were

asked to begin the one assignment the syllabus

required: an original gospel of 30-50 pages, based

on the readings and discussion of the seminar. Now

this class was in the English Department, not the

Religion Department, and so we would be graded on

the quality of our story, how compelling a narrative we

could construct. Two decades later, I still remember

it as the most challenging assignment I’ve ever been

given. Now, admittedly, some of that was length—I’d

never written anything close to fifty pages before on

anything. But the content was my deeper concern.

How do you write an original gospel? How do you

summarize the life of Jesus in your own words?

This difficult assignment was precisely what faced

the man we call Mark as he sat down to record his

story of the life of Jesus, quite possibly the first person

in history to do so. He began without precedent or

guide, simply convinced that the story must be told.

Mark’s story is succinct; his pace is brisk. No

miraculous birth in Bethlehem. No detailed

description of Jesus’ family tree. At the outset of the

story, readers are cast into the wilderness where a

strange-looking figure appears. Mark calls him John

the baptizer. He is preaching, preaching repentance.

He is demanding, demanding change. He is offering,

offering forgiveness and a fresh start. Just as this

prophet John predicts the coming of the Messiah,

immediately Jesus arrives on the scene. At this point,

Mark proceeds at an almost breathless pace. He

barely pauses to describe characters or setting, so

focused is he on the plot itself, so compelled to tell the

good news, the gospel story.

Jesus wades into the Jordan River. The scene is

stuffed with symbolism. Jesus is baptized by John. The

heavens are ripped apart. The Spirit descends like a

dove. A voice from the sky declares, “You are my Son,

the Beloved.”

Now just imagine how Jesus might have seized the

moment to start a movement. Afterall, the heavens

were torn apart. A spirit descending. A divine voice

booming. It’s the perfect launch party for a global

tour. Jesus could have built a brand, become an

influencer, consolidated his power. It would have

been a good story, a compelling narrative for an

original gospel. But it’s not the one Mark tells. Not by

a long shot. Here is what happens instead. The same

Spirit who descended at the baptism drives Jesus out

into the wilderness, where he will spend forty days,

his only company wild beasts and angels, face to face

with temptation.

The ministry of Jesus begins not on stage, but in the

wilderness. The wilderness. A setting of trial, risk, and

danger. The wilderness. A vast untamed landscape

where our power is limited, where our defenses are

useless. The wilderness. A place of solitude where we

are confronted with our own deepest selves, including

the parts of us we’d rather edit out or hide away.

This morning, we stand at the beginning of Lent in

the Christian year. We will spend this holy season of

repentance and reflection in the wilderness. For six

weeks, we’ll be immersed in the stories of scripture

that center spiritual and physical wastelands, and you

might know there are many from which to choose. This

is because, in the pages of scripture, God’s people

often find themselves wandering. In the gospels,

followers of Jesus are frequently lost. The journey of

faith takes us through—not around—the wilderness.

To begin that journey, we must take a risk. What I

mean is this: the wilderness is not usually a place

we visit by choice. After his baptism, Mark does not

tell us that Jesus decided to go on a personal retreat.

The Spirit drove him into the wilderness. Remember:

where the Spirit of God sends us, the Spirit of God

walks with us. So, we can be sure that there is

something sacred for us in this wild place. But that

terrible gift is rarely obvious to us. Not at first.

So, here’s the risk. We must release our death grip on

the control panel. That’s the first step, and it’s a doozy.

I’ll speak for myself. What I fear most in the wilderness

is its incessant reminder that I am not in charge.

Perhaps you are a bit like me. You struggle and you

strive to stay on top of things, on top of everything,

to maintain order, to display some degree of mastery

over your own life. And then, you are driven into the

wilderness, often against your will. The ground shifts

beneath your feet. A daunting diagnosis. A painful

and unexpected loss. A broken relationship. A change

you did not desire. The ground shifts beneath your

feet, and suddenly you are fragile, not in control. Your

power is limited, not limitless. Your humanity is on full

display. You are in the wilderness.

Mark tells us Jesus spent forty days tempted by

Satan. What is this temptation? I think you know. It’s

the very first one scripture records, all the way back

in the beginning. It is the temptation to be like God.

More to the point, the temptation to think, to really

believe, that we are gods. Both Matthew and Luke

fill in Mark’s brief account, describing in detail the

temptations Jesus faced in the wilderness. There

were three of them, each urging Jesus to take control

of the situation, to display his divine power to tame

the wilderness. Each one of them modeled after the

oldest temptation in the book, all the way back in

Eden when the serpent holds out that forbidden fruit

with this promise, “God knows that if you eat of it

your eyes will be opened, and you will become like

gods.” The temptation was more than our ancient

parents could resist. They were hooked by that line.

So are we. They wanted to be divine, and we want

the same thing.

We want to tame the wilderness. We are tempted to

take complete control over whatever we can get our

hands on. You know this about me—I love to clean.

In fact, whenever I am asked to describe my favorite

hobby, I’m tempted to begin with that one. Particularly

passionate about cleaning floors. I think it’s because

it’s the opposite of my day job. There is something so

satisfying about taking a rectangular, orderly space

of wood or carpet or stone and then watching how it

becomes new again as I pass over it with a vacuum

cleaner, or a broom, or a mop. Mowing the lawn works

the same way. You can see the results of your work

right there in front of you. I think my love for that

particular chore is rooted in my desire to have a little

control over at least one small thing in my life, but the

truth is that principle is expandable. If only I was in

charge, I would use my power for good. I would clean

things up around here, get things organized. Oh, how

that craving for control eats away at us. We try to

control our children—good luck. We try to control our

parents, our schedules, our future, our past.

Jesus is driven into the wilderness for forty days.

He is promised power beyond description. Satan

whispers in his ear and then shouts from the

mountaintop. Jesus, build a brand. Become an

influencer. Show them all what a boss you are. Tame

the wilderness. The temptation is always with us. It

takes so many different forms; the devil indeed wears

many disguises.

I don’t know which wilderness you find yourself

traveling through this morning, what kind of baggage

you carried in here, but I do know that you are

burdened. This week, take some time to acknowledge,

to name, the temptations that torment or trouble you.

Don’t judge yourself for having them—we all do. Don’t

try to push them aside—you can’t outrun them. Never

works. In the wilderness of Lent, just release your grip.

Just open your hands, and then pray for the courage to

brave this uncertain land. We understand the proverb

scribbled on the wall of an addiction recovery center

in a David Foster Wallace novel. The proverb says,

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”

Trust the Spirit enough to release your grip. And then

you’re ready, ready to journey through, not around,

this wilderness.

Finally, here’s the good news: there is a promise at the

heart of this morning’s story and this sacred season.

It is a detail that even Mark, in his brevity, is sure to

include. The voice from heaven speaks the language

of love.

You are my Son, my Beloved; I am pleased with you.

I imagine that as Jesus is driven in to the wilderness,

those words echo in his heart. I imagine those

words are in his mind as he turns down temptation

after temptation. Beloved. I am beloved. Loved. I am

loved. Love. God is love. This promise is enough for

the journey.

If you were listening closely, you heard it this morning

spoken of two children of God in our congregation. It

is the baptismal promise. Della, you are loved. Riley,

you are loved. You are claimed. The promise allows

you to brave the wilderness, gives you the strength to

let go. You do not need to control the world or even

your own life, because all of it—all of it—is held in the

arms of God, the same arms that hold you.

So, as we begin this journey through the wilderness,

let the truth of your baptism echo in your heart:

My child.

Beloved.

Loved.

Amen.