Do you know who you are?
This Gospel text is ultimately about Jesus being asked this question by the tempter. Do you know who you are?
And we have the opportunity this first Sunday in Lent to reflect on that question, and to hear anew God’s claim on us, in spite of the tempter’s great power.
“Look,” the devil said to Jesus, “with your kind of power you could turn all these stones into bread. I’ll tell you who you are: you’re hungry.” [pause]
And Jesus was hungry: he hadn’t eaten for forty days, when this happened! How we can do some pretty destructive things when we’re hungry! In our family we have a word for how we can get: HANGRY! Hungry and angry. Do you think Jesus was hangry? He was fully human, we confess in our creed.
[slowly] When we are hungry, we are susceptible to forgetting who we are. Our immediate desires take over — need food, need protection. This world’s uncertainty creates a sort of wilderness, where we are hungry. Our own personal situations can be a sort of barren land. In this climate of horrific violence that makes us think twice or perhaps even downright terrifies us, just to send our children to school, it’s like we’re crawling through a desert yearning for an oasis of safety.
How we too can relate to starvation, for not just nutritional security, but also financial security, national security... church and school security! And how our starvations can make us hangry. (Recently heard a preacher ask, “What’s holding us captive?” RAGE, anger.)
And in our rage and in our hunger, the tempter tries to disassemble our identity. “Do you know who you are? Here, take control, turn all of these stones in to bread, make all of the kingdoms of world bow down to you, force them to. Here, let the angels (like a mighty army) back you up, with force, and be at your beckon call. [whisper] That’s who you are. That’s what you deserve.” [pause]
What strikes me about this story of Jesus’ being tempted in the wilderness is that the devil’s voice never sounds that bad. It’s always subtle — what’s so bad about turning stones into bread when you’re hungry? What’s so bad about over-padding my bank account and sheltering my children from the scary world? Nothing, right? See, hunger starts slowly and grows. [pause] And when those fears start creeping in, like hunger pains, the tempter moves in and questions our identity, starts taking it apart so slowly we don’t even notice, giving us an answer to the question “Do you know who you are”. “How about this?” the devil slyly suggests: “You’re entitled. You deserve all this blessing, unlike all those other sinners, losers, murderers, slackers, Gentiles, unchosen, unblessed ones. You should get all you have...and more. Look at all the good things you do. Go ahead, treat yourself to more: more money, more security, more food, more pleasure, more things. It doesn’t hurt. [pause] Plus you deserve it.”
O we are in a wilderness these 40 days! The temptation is all around — and it doesn’t end after wilderness time either. The tempter keeps returning—waits, the text says, for the “opportune time”. Our identity can be rattled constantly. We are susceptible to others defining us. Because frankly saying, “I am a child of God” doesn’t always seem so great, compared to “I am a powerful CEO. I am the starting QB. I am a mother. I am an American. I am a hard worker, who’s made something of my life. I am a pastor. I am a club member, a subscriber, a friend of [this person or that]. I am so connected. I am home-owner, a world traveller, a college graduate with advanced degrees, a life-long church member, a decorated general, a sister, a survivor...” All these other titles, drown out the most important one, the most central to our identity.
Long before all our titles and resumés and descriptions of ourselves—some good, some bad—God described us, God claimed us, with a promise: “You are my beloved child.” And long after all the other descriptions and accomplishments and titles fade, God’s blessing and presence and still small voice will remain: “You are my beloved child.” [pause]
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In 2012, I went to visit my Grandpa Roschke by myself. Grandpa was slowly and peacefully dying in Colorado Springs, we all knew it and I wanted to see him. I had flown out, gotten a car, drove out. Grandma died a few years before, and Grandpa had been been so lonely and sad ever since. But he always rested in that promise of God’s enduring love and claim on his life — in fact, it was part of Grandpa’s daily vernacular.
A pastor for over 60 years serving the Lutheran church all over Missouri and Illinois, his largest congregation in Kansas City: 1000‘s of people; his Doctorate in Ministry and Preaching that he earned in Chicago, under the great scholar and author Martin Marty; his large and accomplished family spread out across the country (4 children, 11 grandchildren, great grandchildren); a couple beautiful homes over the years, and finally his dream home with a view of the Rocky Mountains that he built for retirement with his life-long partner, my grandma — when I walked into that little assisted-living apartment, where he’s had recently moved, none of those things were visible.
None of those titles, those identities, were apparent.
I actually had to knock on the door a few times and then just let myself in. Grandpa was taking a nap. And he was shrunken by age. I hand’t seen him for a few years, and I couldn’t believe how tiny he looked on that bed. My strong, funny, vivacious, tough-preaching, hard-working grandpa: curled up, like a child, shriveled by age and life...and a recent stroke.
I sat in that dark room and watched him sleep for a few minutes before waking him up, and I cried quietly, both tears of sadness and tears of joy. “Francis Roschke: child of God.” Always was, always will be.
And that is the truth for you too. Look at yourself alone in your bathroom mirror tonight (all through this Lenten season), and say your name, and splash water on your head, and remember that our identities cannot be shaken by the tempter—and all the great temptations of this wilderness world. For Christ has triumphed over the devil, and even death itself, and therefore we are brought into this eternal relationship with God, where we are forever sealed and marked by the Cross of Christ, and gifted with the Holy Spirit. And we are named...given a title that will outlast any identity or medal or diploma on the wall.
Here at the beginning of this year’s Lenten journey, do you know who you are? Today and forever, you are a child of God.
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