“Jesus responded and said, ‘It’s written that it isn’t by bread only that humans will live, but by every utterance from the mouth of God'” (Matthew 4.4).
Later, when this time in the Wild Place is complete and he’s returned to the world of dinner invitations and synagogue attendance, Jesus will tell those gathered around him not to worry about tomorrow. Specifically, he tells them not to worry about what they should eat or drink. Life’s about more than eating and drinking.
And these weren’t pie-in-the-sky sort of words. Jesus’ audience was full of those on the low end of the economic scale. This isn’t the affluent suburban audience on the east side of town but the folks who get anxious when the food banks close in the winter storms. Personally, I’ve struggled with how those like me on the eastern side of the county can read these words aloud in earshot of those who skipped dinner last night so their children can eat.
I’ve never faced a time in my life where I’ve not had access to food when I was hungry. To be honest, there’s always been food around when all I want is a snack. I’ve no idea what the worry that my family might go to bed hungry feels like.
Yet, I worry all the same about there being enough.
I don’t worry specifically about food but about the money and means for sustenance. In the storms of last summer, I worried about power outages and damage to the house. This winter’s arctic chill brought concerns about pipes freezing and losing water. On any given day, I can find something to worry about. Things that all have something in common.
Jesus, in the Wild Place, had no reason to worry about hunger. He knew, before the Tempted ever mentioned it, that he could bring a feast out of the stones around him. He had that ability. But when the idea was brought to him, he refused. He, of course, understood what lay behind such an action, a temptation that would have lead me to transform those stones.
Anxiety, the kind Jesus warns people about, isn’t about need. It’s about control. It’s an emotion that comes when the outcome seems uncertain, and that we have no way to influence much less stop what surrounds us. It’s a feeling that can overtake me when I’m confronted with the reality I’m not sufficient unto myself. It is a reminder that I’m dependent upon and need others.
Jesus was self-sufficient to the point that he could have angels attend to any need. He had that kind of power. He held, in his hands, that kind of control. And yet, when given the chance to assert it, he refused. He chose to be vulnerable, weak, and subject to the chaotic whims of the world.
And in so doing he gave, what is for me, a difficult example, one that accepts, out of wholeness, what lies beyond my knowledge, abilities, and strengths.
One challenging me to put down the stones and fast instead.
Jesus, may I have the courage to be vulnerable, the strength to admit weakness so I might accept all those many things I was never meant to control. May it be enough for me to admit my insufficiency.