“In response, Jesus said, ‘Get out of here, Satan. You know it’s written that worship and veneration are for the Holy One, and Them alone'” (Matthew 4.10).
The first two temptations, as we’ve explored, hold at their heart similar elements. They’re about the alluring myth of self-sufficiency, rugged individualism. If I can produce sustenance from the rocks on the ground, I need no one to plant, grow, or harvest in order that I remain fed. If I am invulnerable, immune from harm then I don’t need to depend on anyone else to help me, to protect me, to travel with me. You’re enough, the Tempter whispers with each one. You’re all you need.
At the end, we come to the mountaintop and look out over the whole world and hear that all of this could be under our rule and command. Greater even than Caesar we could sit upon a throne whose power surrounds the globe. Heck, why stop there. Our empire would stretch throughout the stars.
It sounds, for a moment, impressive. But, for me, it doesn’t seem to hold, unlike the others, any allure. I’ve no desire for so much power. This seems like a temptation for a select few, one that doesn’t touch those same, deep, human desires as the former two.
But did you hear it, the temptation below the surface so like the others? It’s subtle, which is why the Tempter saved it for last. It’s in-line with the idea that we’re complete unto ourselves, that we require no one but me, myself, and I.
Empires don’t last, history shows us that again and again. At their center, perhaps, they seem impermeable, but on the fringes there’s always fraying, fighting. Eventually, no one—not Caesar, nor Constantine, nor Napoleon—can hold an empire together. It’s too much for any mortal.
Yet, that’s the temptation that the Devil offers, just like with the previous two temptations. You are different. You aren’t like those human emperors. You. Are. Immortal.
Listen back to the suggestion of leaping off the temple or turning stones to bread. At their core they are fed by the very human desire to be more than mortal—to be immune from death. Self-sustaining, self-protecting, we would live forever and would, unlike any other human, be capable of such a rule over all living things.
The Devil knew as well as Jesus did how the road ahead could go. Challenging authority and power as he will, death—violent, painful death—was how this all would turn out. What else might turn Jesus’ head, get him to contemplate giving in than the ability to avoid that. It would work on me.
But that’s not the way Jesus points. He chose, instead, dependence and vulnerability, frailty and mortality. He showed a way that revealed the emptiness of those temptations, and carved a path to follow. One that means denying that I can be self-sustaining, can go through this world needing no one or nothing.
It is a way that leads, as it did for Jesus, to a tomb as the light fades from the day.
But is followed by a morning that shakes the world.
Jesus, as we enter this week when we remember your death, teach us anew not to fear it. Give us the courage, as you did, to accept it and not turn away from it. Because, in doing, we confess that we are as mortal and vulnerable as you. We are as dependent and needful of other as you. We, too, will face death. And that we, like you, will rise with the morning that follows.