Just Asking Questions

A Meditation Upon the First Sunday in Lent

Paul Bril (1554-1626) - Christ Tempted in the Wilderness

First of all, for all you bright, shiny new Anglicans out there, the Sundays don’t count. As long as whatever peculiar fast you have taken upon yourself is morally neutral, like giving up chocolate or sugar, and not the devouring of the souls and bodies of other people, you may take a break on the Lord’s day. That is because on Sunday we always celebrate the Resurrection, no matter what. That is why we number Sundays in Lent rather than of Lent.

Still, though, because it’s Lent, the readings appointed for the day are all about sin and temptation. In one epic sweep, we go all the way from Adam and Eve to King David to Saint Paul and thence to the Lord Jesus in the wilderness. And wouldn’t you know it, but Satan is there, from first to last, like so many podcasters today, just “asking questions.”

In the interests of time, the arrangers of our lectionary skip over the curious manner in which God creates Eve in order that we should contemplate the plain and straight-forward command that God gives Adam—“You may surely eat of every tree of the garden, but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.” It doesn’t seem that complicated. And Adam seems to keep it well enough before the arrival of Eve. When she does appear, and they face down the long garden evenings in each others company, does Adam tell her the command in exactly those words? Do they discuss it? Only God knows.

I saw someone online this week making light of the Jerusalem Declaration’s instruction that the Bible should be “translated, read, preached, taught and obeyed in its plain and canonical sense, respectful of the church’s historic and consensual reading.” This person declared that anyone wanting to “shut down conversation” need only say, “This is against the plain reading of Scripture!” and his purpose would be accomplished. How many of us, though, looking back with a jaundiced and disconsolate eye at Eve, wish that she had simply repeated to the Serpent exactly what God had said instead of wondering to herself if maybe he didn’t have a point. Or she could have told the Serpent to buzz off. Or she could have wandered away in boredom to pet some original capybara. Or she could have looked over her shoulder to ask Adam what he thought, though why would she? His silence in this moment is rather overpowering.

Instead, in that primordial inauguration of gaslighting, when asked what God had “actually” said, she found herself confused, or whatever kind of emotional and spiritual experience she had. We can’t know because we weren’t there. We can only empathize from this long distance.

What could be plainer than God saying to the person he had made what he could eat and what he couldn’t? And then that person was supposed to relay that information in words to the second person God had made by cutting out a part of him and making him a “helper” “fit” for him. They came from the same stuff. They were made to go together. And what a lot of conversations have been had down the ages about what all those words mean in their original, plain, anthropological, theological, cultural, philosophical, allegorical, and mythological sense. Indeed, for such a beautiful text, there is such a great heap of bitter recriminations for us to continually wade through. I can understand that we all might be upset about the actual fall of Adam and Eve into sin, but I am continually bemused by how difficult it is for us, as modern people, to face that God created Adam and Eve in the way that he did.

So, of course, Eve eats the fruit, even though she had been told not to, and then Adam eats the fruit, not because he is “deceived”—that’s a technical theological though very offensive word—by Satan, but rather with the clear eyed, hard-hearted rejection of his Creator. He could have thrown himself in the way of Eve’s consideration of the fruit. He might have tried to argue with her. He knew whereof they are both made.

Which is why, incidentally, he is held responsible for throwing us all into ruin. Sure, Eve sinned first, but she was muddled. Even though the command was so simple, all the questions being thrown at her made her question herself and what she knew. But no such questioning muddled Adam. He knew all along, and he was there with her, and could have stopped her, and didn’t. Instead, he stretched out his hand to the tree and ate the fruit with all the knowledge and understanding of the whole Garden at his disposal.

“Therefore,” says Saint Paul in one of those epic run-on sentences that drive every Bible reader crazy, “just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned for sin indeed was in the world before the law was given, but sin is not counted where there is no law.” He is making the point that though the desire to rebel against God hovers latently in the background of the human mind and heart and soul and strength, once the law is uttered, suddenly it brings forth the powerful and vainglorious desire to break it. The choice—do you trust and love God or do you trust and love yourself—is presented to each person in many and sundry ways and each one makes his or her own decision. Its just that everyone always grasps option two, to trust and love the self.

The command to Adam not to eat of the Tree eventually culminated in God’s great gift of the whole Levitical Law. The Ten Commandments, at first glance, appear to be plain and straight forward, until one sees how far down into the soul they are bound to go. Anyway, like Adam, the people of Israel said “Sure,” and then went out of their way to ignore it almost entirely.

All this, of course, brings us to the question of Jesus by way of David, who, after sinning so callously with Bathsheba, writes one of the most beautiful passages in the whole Bible. David, to me, is a curiosity. For, having ruined the marriage and the reputation of the woman, when confronted, he doesn’t dissemble, he doesn’t blame anyone, he doesn’t hide. No, he looks God full in the face. Instead of trying to cobble together an outfit of fig leaves, the usual ugly self-justifications, the accusations of the other person that are the bread and butter of most our lives lives, he says simply, ‘I was wrong, I sinned, it was all my fault.’ He is described, therefore, as having God’s own “heart.”

We can’t linger in the past so long, though. No, as we try to habituate ourselves to the tortures of Lent, we must turn to Jesus in the wilderness who is finally all alone with Satan. He hasn’t chosen any disciples. His family is at home carrying on with life in the usual way. Generations of broken promises are baked into the hard, dry, parched ground under his feet. Satan comes to ask just three questions, each of which cut to the core who who Jesus is and what he is meant to do. These aren’t questions posed for the gathering of information. Rather, they assume the same hard heart, the blank incuriosity of Adam. They are meant to make him stumble and fall, to further ruin the sublime peace of knowing God. If you are really the Son of God, he says to Jesus, you wouldn’t be so hungry. If you are really the Son of God, God would really love you and would never let you die. And finally, perhaps in anger and frustration, why don’t you just worship me already?

Just asking questions—but is God actually good? If he loved you, why can’t you eat whatever you want? Why do you have to do what he says? Why doesn’t he trust you? These lines of “inquiry” worked before, and for so so long, why don’t they work now? How come Jesus is so ready off the mark with an actual answer? Satan withdraws, baffled, hoping for a more opportune time. Is it possible in his bitter hatred of God, that he has missed the logic at the foundation of the whole world? That a Second Man would come, would love not himself but the Father and all the Father gave to him?

Mercifully, Jesus didn’t stay alone in the wilderness. His trial there was only the beginning of the unraveling of human pride that would culminate on the cross where his astonishing obedience to his Father opened the door for righteousness for all of us. His flesh—not Adams—becomes the substance and joy of all our days. He gradually fits us together in himself. He is the Answer to every question, the salve for every conscience, the forgiveness for every sin, the undoing of every speck of pride and self-justification. Do you wonder if he loves you? Are you baffled and unsettled by the many swirling accusations of Satan and all his workers of evil? Put your hand out toward the Tree of Life, grasp the food that the Lord offers there. Let your wavering dissipate in the great peace that Jesus wrought through his most precious body and blood.

Also, go to church! Even if there’s a little threat of snow, it won’t pick up till the afternoon so there’s plenty of time to go out and then get back home to sit comfortably by the fire.