Sunday Reflection – Lent 1
READING: Matthew 4.1–11
The Temptations of Christ
At the beginning of Lent, we are led with Jesus into the wilderness. He has just been baptised. A voice has named him: “You are my Son, the Beloved.” And before he heals anyone, before he preaches a sermon, before he gathers disciples, he is led by the Spirit into solitude
That detail matters. The wilderness is not a punishment. It is not a spiritual boot camp. It is Spirit-led. It is the place where Jesus’ vocation is clarified.
It is tempting — especially at the start of Lent — to turn this story into advice. Jesus resisted food he was offered, so you should resist those chocolate biscuits too. Jesus fasted, so tighten your belt. But that reduces Christ’s presence in the world to behaviour modification. It turns the Son of God into a self-help coach.
The deeper question of this text is not, how can we keep Lent by resisting what we have given up? Rather, the wilderness asks: What kind of Messiah will Jesus be? And from that: What kind of people will we become as his followers?
The temptations we hear about are not crude invitations to do something obviously wicked. Turning stones into bread, throwing yourself from the Temple so angels catch you, taking the kingdoms of the world — these are not absurd ideas. They are, in fact, what many expected of the Messiah. Feed the hungry. Demonstrate divine authority. Establish a just kingdom.
None of it is ridiculous. None of it is obviously evil. That is what makes the temptations profound. They are plausible shortcuts.
There is a song from the 1960s that quietly echoes this. “Turn! Turn! Turn!” by The Byrds — drawn almost entirely from Ecclesiastes — repeats the refrain: “To everything there is a season.” A time to plant and a time to harvest. A time to build up and a time to break down.
The wilderness is about timing.
Each temptation offered to Jesus is an invitation to act too soon or in the wrong way. Turn stones into bread — now. Throw yourself down — now. Take the kingdoms — now.
But Jesus refuses premature glory. There will be bread — but at a table, broken and shared. There will be revelation — but in vulnerability, not spectacle. There will be a kingdom — but not secured by domination.
To everything there is a season.
- The first temptation comes when Jesus is famished. “Turn these stones into bread.” Bread matters. Bodies matter. Hunger is real. But the question is not whether bread is good. The question is whether identity is grounded in immediate appetite. “One does not live by bread alone.” Jesus refuses to reduce life to survival or proof.
- The second temptation is religious theatre. Throw yourself from the Temple. Prove you are beloved. Silence doubt with spectacle.Again, it is plausible. It would clarify things. It would end speculation. But faith is not theatre. Trust does not need a stunt. Jesus refuses to manipulate God into performance.
- The third temptation is political power. “All the kingdoms of the world and their splendour.” Imagine the good you could do with that. Imagine how efficiently justice could be imposed.
And here the temptation touches every age. If only we had control. If only the right people were in charge.
But Jesus refuses to worship power in order to wield it. The Kingdom of God will grow like seed in soil, like yeast in dough — slowly, quietly, organically.
In each temptation, the devil says, “If you are the Son of God…” The wilderness is about identity. Will Jesus grasp at validation? Or will he rest in the belovedness already spoken over him?
Much of what the New Testament calls “sin” is not rule-breaking so much as false narrative. It is the story that says: you must prove yourself. You must secure yourself. You must control the outcome. You must act now, decisively, impressively.
But Jesus trusts the season he is in.
There is a season for hiddenness. A season for rooting. A season when nothing looks impressive. Lent may be that season for us.
The temptations are about the road not taken. They are about declining the script everyone expected. Not because it was wicked — but because it was not faithful to the deeper call.
And the ending is quiet. The devil departs. Angels minister. No fireworks. Just sustenance.
Faithfulness rarely looks dramatic. Integrity is often unspectacular. But it sustains life.
So at the beginning of Lent, we are not invited primarily to try harder. We are invited to examine the stories we are living by. Where are we tempted to grasp at what has already been given? Where are we pushing for results when God may be asking for trust? Where are we acting out of anxiety rather than belovedness?
“To everything there is a season.”
In the wilderness, Jesus shows us a different narrative — one grounded not in proving, but in belovedness. Not in domination, but in service. Not in spectacle, but in trust.
Lent begins, not with self-improvement, but with identity.
You are beloved.
And from that place, a truer vocation can unfold.
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