First Sunday in Lent, Year B

A Sermon from the Church of  

Bethesda-by-the-Sea in Palm Beach, Florida

Preached by the Rev. Timothy E. Schenck on January 18, 2024 (First Sunday in Lent, Year B)

Wilderness. The word alone evokes so many images and feelings; positive and negative, awe-inspiring and frightening. You can get lost in the wilderness, yet it can also be a place of stunning beauty. At its root is the word “wild,” so “wilderness” derives from the notion of “wildness.” Which really means that which cannot be controlled by humans.

For those of us of a certain generation, it’s impossible to think about wild things without conjuring images of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are. Those vividly colorful illustrations of Max’s bedroom being transformed into a wild jungle. A place where “the wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.” 

But while we’ve been drawn into such places through storybooks or movies, and while we’ve all spent time out in nature, most of us haven’t ever experienced a true wilderness. A place where we are physically isolated with even odds that we’ll ever make it out alive. For a lot of us the concept of wilderness may mean little more than spotty cell phone coverage. Or it might mean we’re on vacation surrounded by mountains or beautiful natural scenery — a sort of genteel wilderness with a rustic lodge waiting for us when we tire of all that nature. 

Frankly, a true wilderness is tough to find here on the east coast of Florida. The developers have made sure of that. And while the Everglades looms large over this region, most of us don’t pass it on the way to Publix. 

So at one level it’s tough to relate to Jesus being cast out into the wilderness for 40 days and 40 nights. It’s hard to imagine the hunger, the thirst, the fear, the isolation. The very human physical and mental response to such deprivation and uncertainty. 

But at an emotional or metaphorical level, we all know exactly what it’s like to have a wilderness experience. There are times in our lives when we’ve felt alone or emotionally isolated or cut off from those we love. There are times when we’ve known the depths of despair. Times when we have been gripped by such a deep and visceral grief that we question whether we’ll ever be able to climb out of it. Some of you may even be in such a state this morning, doing your best to hide it from the world.

Life itself can feel like a series of forays into the wilderness. But the thing about the wilderness is it can also be a place of clarity. Perhaps not when you’re deep in the thick of it, but often in retrospect. Think about the difficult moments in your life. You probably grew from them or learned something about yourself. You may have grown closer to God through the experience.

This doesn’t make being in the wilderness easy. It’s not. It can be hard and heartless, suffocating and scary. It can make you question everything you believe in. But it can also serve as preparation for what is to come; to a new phase of life, a new venture, a new calling. 

Every year on the first Sunday in Lent we hear the story of Jesus being tempted by satan out in that wilderness. In Matthew and Luke we hear the familiar repartee between Jesus and the devil: “If you are the son of God, turn these stones into bread” with the reply “Man does not live by bread alone.” Back and forth they go with Jesus being tempted by the allure of wealth and power, yet not giving in to the wiles of the evil one.

But in Mark’s gospel, we get the trimmed down version. I’ve always thought of Mark as the Ernest Hemingway of the four evangelists. He’s brief, to the point, and in a hurry. There’s an immediacy in his words, the oldest and shortest account of Jesus’ life. When it comes to this story upon which the season of Lent is based, all we hear is that Jesus was “driven out” into the wilderness for 40 days, was tempted, and then the angels waited on him following the ordeal.

In a similar way, every year we are thrust into Lent. And it can be a bit jarring. You look around the church and the amazing flower displays are gone. There’s a starkness to the liturgy. On the first Sunday in Lent we begin with the Great Litany. Which in itself feels a bit like being in the wilderness — it can leave you wondering whether you’ll actually ever emerge from it. 

But entering the wilderness of Lent should feel like a holy disruption. We are thrust into a season that forces us to consider the very state of our spiritual lives. And for many of us, if we’re honest, there’s been some drift. We’ve strayed off the path. We’ve spent time following too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done. 

And so this season offers us an opportunity to recalibrate and renew, to refresh and recommit to our walk with Jesus Christ. It’s not about guilt or shame, but an invitation to be reminded of just how much Jesus desires to walk alongside you. To comfort you, to care for you, to challenge you, to love you.

So I invite you to embrace the wilderness of Lent. To see it as a season of possibility and renewal. Not necessarily by giving up chocolate — Lent must be more than some sort of diet plan. But by seeking out time to spend with Jesus through prayer and silence, through worship and learning. 

At Bethesda, we have so many opportunities to deepen our individual and collective faith over the next five weeks. I encourage you to choose even just one. It may be joining me for Morning Prayer or attending the Wednesday eucharist, it may be signing up for our Lenten retreat or joining our Wednesday evening book study. Or it may be simply spending some intentional time with Scripture or in prayer. There’s not a one-size fits all approach to experiencing the wilderness of Lent. But there’s has to be some approach. And I invite you to try a spiritual discipline that you’ll hopefully find rewarding and that will draw you ever closer to the heart of God.

At the end of Where the Wild Things Are, Max leaves the wilderness of the Wild Things and returns to the place where he is loved and comforted. He goes home, replenished and renewed. The Lenten wilderness may be challenging, even disconcerting at times. But mirroring Jesus’ 40 days and 40 nights, we will come out the other side hopefully with some spiritual clarity. Because when we embrace the wilderness of Lent, we leave it transformed and ready to step into the warm glow of resurrection glory. So today our Lenten journey begins. Or, as Max might say, “Let the wild Lenten rumpus start.”